


Of victories and defeats

by KalTheMasquerade (Kalendeer)



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, It's never a good night in LA, Lacroix's extensive backstory, M/M, Nines being cute sometimes, Sebastian needs hugs, Slow Burn, but trouble is never finished in LA so of course it doesn't end with bloodlines, camarilla pro-Strauss ending, camarilla's back in town with sexy cops, dubcon, enemies to amnesic boyfriends, post-bloodlines, the sabbat strikes back
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 60,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/KalTheMasquerade
Summary: It’s funny, how circular unlife can be at times.A year ago, Lacroix ordered the butcher to swing the sword down – and now, he is the one kneeling with blindfolded eyes.And because Kindreds never change, Nines stands.
Relationships: Nines Rodriguez/Original Character(s), Sebastian LaCroix/Nines Rodriguez, Sebastian LaCroix/Original Character(s)
Comments: 300
Kudos: 83





	1. Prologue: The stage falls down

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated to the small but valliant Nines&Sebastian fandom out there, who has endured for all those years in the shadows! I hope you will like this fic ^_^

It’s funny, how circular unlife can be at times.

Has it been a mere year? More or less, give it a week or two. The memory is still sharp in Nines’ mind : the red chairs of the Nocturne theatre, the old curtains hanging around a crowd of Camarilla soldiers in black suits, down to the kindred kneeling in their midst. The only change is the new wannabe tyrant of the city: High Justice Archon Rebecca Walstein.

Walstein is not Lacroix. There is no attempt at smiling, no gold plating to hide she is an enforcer sent from the highest purgatory to bring order into the mess that is Los Angeles. Nines grits his teeth – but so far, so far Walstein has made no move on the Anarchs, gave him no mean to rant against her. He cannot imagine she is not planning something; he just cannot prove it, and she is handing them the blood they ask for.

“… thus, our investigation having established the accused is guilty of the charges of murder against a fellow Kindred of the Camarilla, of collusion with the enemies of the Camarilla, of threatening the peace with the Anarchs in direct violation of the Convention of Thorns, of having attempted to commit diablerie; the accused is sentenced to death by the High Justice. The sentence is to be enacted immediately.”

It’s funny, how circular unlife can be at times.

A year ago, Lacroix was ordering the butcher to swing the sword down – and now, he is the one kneeling with blindfolded eyes.

And because life is circular, Nines stands. He feels acutely the eyes settling on him – some friendly, others less amicable. For a few moments he enjoys the questions in their glares. Are some of them expecting him to call for mercy, like he did before?

“Yes, mister Rodriguez?” Walstein’s voice is polite, as precise as her haircut: a very crisp bob with hair as straight as her personality. She does not look fazed at all by the interruption.

Not that Nines is surprised. He is not certain Walstein still knows what facial expressions are. “I want to hear it from him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to hear,” he repeats, louder, letting some of the anger that has been sleeping for months slip through, “Lacroix say that he is a backstabbing piece of shit. I want to hear him say he abused his powers and tried to murder me.”

Whispers rise like a wave around him. Walstein says nothing, merely stares down, but others are talking. There is a voice, somewhere in the back, arguing that any execution is bad enough without making more of a spectacle of it; there are many, everywhere, most of them Anarch, calling loudly in agreement: that they all deserve to see Lacroix grovel one last time.

“The accused has admitted to his crimes,” Walstein finally intones. “Multiple Camarilla witnesses can testify. We do not doubt he is guilty.”

“Because you think I do?” Nines asks. Someone chuckles. _Many_ someones. “But the thing is, Archon, you’ve had Lacroix holed up for months now. Now you’re getting him out the fridge and we get what? Not a single word from him, and that fucking blindfold covering so much of his face? Are we even certain it’s him?”

“The accused has been blindfolded to avoid some disruptive uses of his mind powers. Removing the blindfold is nothing but to call for disturbance of the solemn event.”

“Come on! How many of you are up there? If he tries anything, just whack him on the head!”

He can hear Damsel’s agreement (“ _Yeah! Let us see his dumb face!”)_ mingling with so many others ( _“Nines deserves this!” “Let the tyrant beg!” “Murder!” “Traitor!” “Let him see how many fucks we give!”_ ), and he cannot hear Walstein clicking her fingers, but he sees her biggest goon hit the wooden floor of the stage with his cane in an attempt to calm the unruly crowd. “This is a court of the Camarilla, mister Rodriguez, not a public stoning!”

“Of course it’s not!” Damsel shouts. “Since when do you use stones for decapitation?”

“I’m not asking for the world, damnit! Is that so hard to understand? That I’d want to look into the face of the one who tried to murder me _twice_ before he dies?”

With each word, Nines steps forward the stage. Should he climb up there and yank the blindfold himself, will they stop him? They are stepping lightly around him. Not strong enough yet to light the spark of war with the Anarchs, not after Lacroix’s fall left a gaping hole into the Camarilla’s fabric in this city. And at the same time… if Walstein allows him… he’ll show them all how weak their grasp truly is…

“Just pull down the blindfold!”

Forward, forward.

See if they stop him.

“I want him to look at me and tell me, tell everyone: _yes, I betrayed you all! I set you up and I tried to have you killed_!”

Forward.

“Calm down, mister Rodriguez.”

Forward.

“I am calm!” Will they stop him from climbing on this stage? “I assure you, ma’am, I am much calmer than I was when Lacroix tried to set me on fire, and then sent a werewolf after me!”

He touches the stage.

And the building starts to shake. Time suspends its course long enough for Walstein to look down on Nines with just an hint of surprise on her face, the start of the first genuine expression he’s ever seen from her – and then the whole building collapses on them all.

***

Unlife can be circular, but sometimes it’s not.

It is the first time Nines Rodriguez is buried under what feels like tons of rubbles.

He is probably exaggerating – tons would probably have killed him, and though every part of him is hurting, he manages to fix himself quickly enough to be the first man standing in a cloud of dust, in what used to be the theatre basement. One of Walstein’s bodyguards is moaning nearby – not threatening, yet, but Nines knows better. Damn, he feels so close to frenzying himself, he’s not going to trust some random kindred with his unlife. Nines’ gun is still there, holstered against his flank, and he takes it out quickly. Should the other attack…

He does not. He moans, grunts and try to lift himself. Rubbles slide down, dust rises, but not enough, and Nines feels like laughing: the fool managed to get himself between some pretty mean looking beam and Lacroix, as if some deep bodyguard instinct had urged him to act as a shield between danger and the Camarilla big shot.

Ex big shot.

Too bad.

The guard struggles to lift himself from the ground and it’s just enough for Nines to grab Lacroix by the collar and pull. The unmoving body is heavy, but nothing a little potence cannot solve – and the goon’s frustrated shout isn’t doing anything either.

“Nines!”

He’s hit by something small and red, hard enough to let go of Lacroix. Damsel’s arms close around his neck. He can see her fangs when she speaks. She either frenzied or got caught in Rötshreck, or close – either way they have to go, and quickly, before Walstein or one of her friends manages to extract themselves from the debris of the fallen theatre.

“I’m alright. Look what I found.”

He gives Lacroix a little kick in the leg. Just enough to get the Ventrue moving, see that he is not torpored; he is not, but not really reacting either.

“Yeah good,” Damsel says in a single breath, “end him quickly and let’s go, Nines, it’s a shitty time to –“

“Give me a minute.” He did not start this all just to put a bullet into Lacroix’s head and be done with it. No! Lacroix will see him pull the trigger, will grovel and beg for him not to!

So Nines kneels, big caliber gun pointed toward the Lacroix’s face, and with his left hand rips off the blindfold.

Lacroix looks back.

And back.

And back.

Not torpored, but staring blankly at Nines’ face and the gun hovering a finger away from his brow, his eyes entirely empty and uncomprehending, and Nines has seen such glazed eyes before in kids submitted to way too heavy uses of Dominate…

 _Shit_ , Nines thinks. _Fucking shit!_

No wonder Walstein would not let Lacroix’s speak.

There is no Lacroix left to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaand that's the end of that prologue! What do you think? Any idea what will happen next? Who collapsed the Nocturne Theatre? Will dearest Walstein let Nines run away with Empty-Headed Lacroix and WTF will Nines do with the former prince of the city?


	2. Book 1, Ch1: Useless baggage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter \o/ Enormous thanks to the people who commented on the first one, I hope you'll enjoy this second one <3

It’s a relief that everyone shows up at the Hanged Man, the derelict pub the Anarchs kept as a backup headquarters, should the Last Round feel unsafe. If “more or less okay” were spectrum, Damsel would be at the “mostly okay” end – a bit of dust here and there, which she shakes off merely by being herself. Moving too much, too fast, with moves jerky from barely contained anger. She is ranting about one thousand different plots against the Movement when Skelter shows up – on the “less okay” end. One of his arms is at a weird angle and the amount of dry blood on his clothes would be worrying if he were still human. VV is attached to the other arm, looking almost as beaten up.

Then there’s Lacroix. Dust everywhere, hair a mess, clothes half torn from when Nines pulled him out from the rubbles. And yet, the Ventrue is the only one who looks entirely unfazed by the attack, eyes blank and barely reacting whenever someone click they fingers an inch from his nose.

“Look, Nines! I respect you, I truly do but don’t you think we have enough on our plates without you adopting…”

Damsel looks like she is strangling herself on whatever words can define Lacroix; either they fail to express her feelings on the matter, or she just has _too many_ battling to make it to her lips. So she just makes wide gestures in Lacroix’s direction, hands going up and down and face screaming: _look, guy, it’s wrong from head to toes, what the fuck were you thinking?_

“She does have a point,” Skelter agrees. “He does not look like much of a threat right now, but if we had to pick useless baggage… I did not expect you to pick that one.”

Neither did Nines, to be entirely honest. If anyone had told him at dusk that he would one day save Sebastian Lacroix of all people, he would have laughed. Hard and loud. Isn’t that exactly what he just did?

Not exactly. One must have very low standards to think so, considering Nines is just keeping him warm until he can enact a more satisfactory ending.

“I said I want him to beg!” Nines growls. “Does he look like he can beg now? He doesn’t even know his own name!”

“He’s still useless baggage!” Damsel shouts. “And it’s going to be a fucking nuisance very very soon! What’s he supposed to eat? Even if we knew, we’re at war, we aren’t going to waste good blood for him!”

“It’s not for _him_. It’s for _me_. I’m not asking any of you to do anything. I’ll find him blood or I’ll end him if I cannot.”

“What a waste of time!” The red-haired girl lets out an angry snarl, but she knows Nines: when he speaks with that tones, they all know he won’t let the bone drop.

No matter if said bone is a stupid vendetta. No matter if Damsel is right and the time is not.

Skelter shrugs. “Calm down, Damsel. We can just stake him and store him somewhere.”

“Yeah. How about we store him in wet concrete, let it dry and then throw it in the ocean?”

“I agree with Nines,” VV purrs, her voice like cool wind upon everyone’s tension. “While I am loathe to defend a man who betrayed us all… don’t you all wonder why they dominate-fried his brain? If they just wanted him to stay still during the trial, they could just have him drink heavily drugged blood, use a few blood powers… I am not a Dominate expert, not at all… but I don’t believe it took them _months_ to get him to admit to his crimes?”

“Your point?” Damsel taps her feet angrily. She can be a good listener, but not when her ire has been awakened.

Nines sees where this is coming. “You think Walstein wants his powerbase.”

“Of course! Why not? Lacroix did not last long as a Prince, but he did not fail instantly either. He must have had contacts, assets, properties, money. We must assume Walstein does not want Lacroix’s powerbase – she secured it already.”

Damsel almost explodes. “Great! Great! We ousted the Cammie overlord for… nothing?”

“Pretty much,” Skelter agrees dejectedly. “And we can all assume neither the Anarchs nor the Camarilla collapsed the theatre on our heads, so we either have the Sabbat or the Kuei Jin to thank for that.”

The conclusion is greeted by the sound of a glass exploding as it meets a wall, and then a few more, and a bottle, until Damsel stomps out to blow some steam at the back of the pub.

“Okay.” Nines sighs. In some way, he feels better now that he did ever since Walstein came sneaking into their city. Now there’s going to be a big fight, action, people showing their true face. The whole situation sucks, but in a way that makes his blood sing. “Let’s call it a night. Everyone secures their haven, some blood, heal the wounds. I’ll go store Lacroix somewhere.”

“I’ll send some rats to scout the Last Round,” Skelter offers. “VV, we can find you something if you don’t want to go all the way to Hollywood tonight.”

Nines nods to both. “I’ve got a spare haven if you don’t mind some pretty spartan arrangements. I’ll drive you to Hollywood tomorrow – wouldn’t mind meeting with Isaac Abrams and the Nos’ if they decide to show up.”

“Thank you, but I would feel safer in my own home… just…” She bats her eyes to Skelter. “… walk with me until I find a cab?”

“I’ll leave you to it.” Skelter and VV? Well. They could both find a worst match. “Let’s move.”

***

If one good thing can be said about Lacroix, it’s that the Dominate brainwashing makes him a lot less annoying.

The one bad thing is that he is also extremely boring, and it feels like driving in the night with a wide eyed corpse in the passenger seat.

Nines’ battered car stops in front of a big gate covered with a whole collection of “MEAN DOGS! DO NOT ENTER!” plates. He gets out of the car and pushes the intercom button one, two, three times until the device finally lights up. “Hey, Ana? Nines here.”

Heavy statics, and then a female voice: _“Why are you called Nines?”_

 _Come on_. “Because I’m the ninth child of the family.”

_“What was the name of your sire?”_

“Juan. Listen, Ana, I’m in a hurry – “

_“Nines Rodriguez would know better than to – “_

“OKAY Ana, ask your questions, what do you want to know?”

At least a dozen of things only he would know, until several dogs start to bark behind the doors, steel screaking on steal, and the gate opens just a little. A small head with a golden mane and slit pupils appears between the door leaves.

“Is that you?” the Gangrel asks, and it annoys Nines more than a little that she would _still_ ask that after so many indiscreet questions.

“ _Yes_ , Ana, can I come in or shall I just drive down the hill?”

“Who’s with you?”

“Can I explain inside?”

“ _No_.”

“I want to drop the brain-dead former prince of L.A on your couch.”

The slanted eyes blink. “Really?”

“Can I get in.”

“… yeah.” The door creaks; not many people visit her, and she almost never leaves her home. “Leave the car.”

He knows why. There’s a path to drive up to the house, but it’s trapped – and the bushes around the path are filed with glowy eyes that would make Nines shiver if he were a lesser man. The house itself doesn’t look much better from the outside: old paint flaking, no light, an old American flag so battered some strips turned into ribbons. There’s a single rocking chair where Ana curls like a strange cat in old, smelly clothes, her long tangled hair framing her thin face. “What’s the story?”

“The Camarilla cops used some heavy Dominate to get what they wanted. Assets, contacts, all the good stuffs he had as a prince.”

“And you are dropping him on my laps?”

“The Camarilla knows who you are?”

Ana’s rocking chair creaks. She glares, but she answers as expected: “I don’t think so.”

“Look at him,” Nines pushes Lacroix’s shoulder – and gets no reaction, no surprise here. “Just tie him in your cave blindfolded and call me if he ever remembers how to talk. I’ll give you enough blood.”

“Hm… what’s his clan? Toreador? Ventrue?”

“Ventrue.”

“What does he eat?”

“We will ask once he remembers himself. Until then…”

“He’s going to throw up all over my ground. This is…”

“Not an ideal plan. Do you have a better one? Come on, Ana, you owe me, take him in for a few day and we’ll be even.”

She swings nervously on her chair, eying Nines and Lacroix suspiciously, but the Ventrue pays her no heed and that seems to reassure her.

“… okay,” she finally agrees; having decided, perhaps, that she has enough rusted chains and ropes to deal with one broken vampire. “But you feed him and if he turns on me, I’ll turn my dogs on him until all that's left is bones.”

“Seems fair.” Nines extends his hand. Ana’s feels odd in his, small, with too sharp nails.

They have an agreement; and Lacroix looks like he doesn’t give a single fuck that it’s about him.


	3. Book 1, Ch2: Uneasy alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Nanowrimo month and this fic is my comfort fic, sir! So here's a new chapter!
> 
> Enormous thanks to the three reviewers of chapter 2, this is for you folks \o/ I hope you'll like it!

The decoration of Isaac Abrams’ office is all it takes to know he and Nines aren’t the same kind of Anarchs. Gaudy colors, golden paint: the trappings of wealth, and Nines knows it’s not only for the show. But well; he doesn’t expect Abrams to collapse his own building on his head, and he’s a better ally than the Camarilla goon siting in the other chair. A tall guy with chestnut hair, handsome features and extremely white teeth.

“How is Walstein?” Nines asks, and he doesn’t try very hard to keep the smirk out of his voice. “I’m very disappointed she couldn’t attend this meeting.”

“Archon Walstein is rallying Camarilla forces for the war to come.” The _servire_ stands, extends a hand, and when Nines decides to shake it, he finds it quite firm. The smile seems genuine too. “I’m James Callaghan. I’ve heard a lot about you, mister Rodriguez.”

“Sorry, I can’t say I heard anything about you.”

James flashes a radiant smile. “I am sure we will be better acquainted soon. Madam Walstein wants to ensure there is no miscommunication between us in those complicated times. I will be honored to act as liaison with the Anarch on a daily basis.”

He looks nice enough – but all it takes is for Nines to wonder if James was the one to bash enough Dominate into Lacroix to turn him into a silent puppet to resist the charm. Honored, _my ass_! More like waiting to drop the mask. “You were speaking about war?”

“Yes,” Isaac Abrams nods. “I had news from the Nosferatu… not that we needed their help on that one. Gary Golden gave them up for free. It is telling, isn’t it? The Sabbat claims responsibility for the attack. They have defiled a dozen havens in the city – most of them already abandoned or back up havens; murdered four ghouls, including two of mine; and sent death treats to the Tremeres, who concluded, after some magical shenanigans, that it had been redacted by a hobo paid by a “masked person”.”

“None of the attacks yielded much results, except for the killing of the ghouls,” James adds. “But the scale of it is very worrying. They knew were to find us, how to time their attack, how to find the Tremeres… this cannot be the work of a single pack, no matter how well organized : this is the prelude of a full scale war.”

Nines feels inclined to agree, except… “Was any Kindred’s destruction confirmed?”

“My child Ash is uncalled for,” Abrams answers. “As well as one Nosferatu whose name eludes me. On your side?”

“We were missing two downtown Anarchs yesterday night. Can’t say they are dead, though.”

“One of my fellow _servire_ is in torpor. He’s been moved out of the city already and will be replaced soon… speaking of people uncalled for…” James’ face remains amiable, but his stare is nothing short of piercing. “We would be grateful, mister Rodriguez, if you could return Lacroix to us.”

“For what purpose exactly?”

“So you have him?” Abrams asks. “What for, Rodriguez?”

“He’s very decorative.”

“Are you kidding? Lacroix has been nothing but problems for us! If the Camarilla wants to dispose of him, let them! We have enough on our plate!”

“Did you two agree to team against me? Tell me, Abrams, what did he,” Nines points at James, “offer you for your support?”

“Nothing. _Listen_ , Rodriguez! I am not fond of the Camarilla, but you and I both know they are the lesser evil. We are not teaming up against _you_ , we must be teaming up against the Sabbat! Surely you can set aside…”

“Set aside what? The last time I was asked to set aside political feuds, Lacroix sent a fucking werewolf after me! No, thank you, I know what Camarilla promises sound like.”

“Perhaps, but Lacroix is not a hill worth dying on! They were chopping his head yesterday night, and they will go on with that plan.”

“Sure, they would want to, if only to hide Lacroix’s been braindead the whole time. I wonder why?” Nines asks with fake candor to James. “Why would you need such heavy use of Dominate?”

“Sebastian Lacroix is a criminal,” James answers with cold neutrality. “He is a diablerist who tried to murder you. Why, exactly, are you defending him?”

“I am not, and I am not amnesic either. The charges were attempted diablerie, and now he’s a diablerist? You aren’t even coherent with yourself?”

“On the contrary. Sebastian Lacroix _is_ a diablerist. He was an acting archon during the Siege of New York and walked from the frontline with black stripes into his aura. He was pardoned like all of those who _slipped_ during the battle, but such things are addictive. Once one starts on this path… they always _slip_ again. He was given a chance, he botched it. If you are considering giving him another one, mister Rodriguez… you should beware of your protégé. He is not what you think he is.”

“Thanks for the tip, _servire_ , but that ain’t an explanation on why it took you five months to put him on trial, nor why you needed to brainwash him!”

“Honestly, Rodriguez,” Abrams says, looking more than a little annoyed, “right now, no one cares but _you_! We have a war on our hands…”

“So you said.” Nines rises from the chair. Hands in his pockets, head held high. “This is my offer: No fights between the Anarchs and the Camarilla until we take the Sabbat trash out. I keep Lacroix on the ground that I’m the one he pissed off the most. Don’t want to take my offer? That’s your problem. I am done agreeing to Camarilla alliances on their terms.”

“You are such a child!”

“What did they offer you, Abrams? Lacroix seat?”

“Get. Out.”

Nines is happy to oblige.

***

He knows he shouldn’t go back to Ana after he checked if everything was alright with the Last Round crew (that will need a new name, considering the Last Round is now home to a full collection of offensive Sabbat graffiti), not when there’s very good chances James Callaghan’s, Abrams’ or _anyone_ ’s spies may be following – but the road to get there is curvy and isolated, so unless someone managed to climb into Nines’ own car…

Still, he shouldn’t.

But he does.

Perhaps he’s just worried about Ana. He knew Lacroix could be dangerous – should probably have expected him to be a diablerist before James threw that into his face…

He is overreacting. Must be. He will find Lacroix tied down in Ana’s basement, a threat to no one.

He needs to deliver blood to the Gangrel anyway.

The interphone buzzes, the dogs barks, and soon he is following the girl inside. There was light in the house and the sound of a radio or tv set filtered through the door.

“Okay,” Ana starts uneasily. “I know this is going to sound _weird_ …”

 _Weirder than anything you always do?_ Nines will not say it aloud. Each vampire has trauma to work with, and so far, Ana’s ways looks like they hurt no one.

“… I don’t want you to get angry.”

“Why would I be angry?”

“I’ve untied the Princess.”

“You’ve done – what Princess?”

“He’s got nice skin. How was I supposed to call him?” She shuffles her feet, fidgets, pulls on her sleeves, and looks so embarrassed Nines almost regrets he asked. “Lacroix? Doesn’t that feel too formal? I don’t know his name. Princess sounds like Ex-Prince backward, doesn’t it?”

“Fine. So, why did you untie him?”

“I had to! When I went down this morning to feed him, he was trying to bite off his own wrist! What was I supposed to do, let him? Foxes will do that, you know? Chew off their pawn? I calmed him with some Animalism and then he was all slacky anyway. I had to feed him some blood but he healed the wrist alright, _really well_ actually considering fang wounds actually don’t go away that easily, but well at some point he looked fine but he did start freaking out again when I tried to tie him again so – “

“Okay, okay, I get it. Where is he now.”

“You’re not going to get angry, aren’t ?”

Of course Nines is angry.

But he saddled Ana with a harder task than he thought, and that’s on _him_. “Not with you,” he fumes. “I just don’t want you to be in danger.”

“Ah! Don’t worry, he’s been sweet so far. He’s in the kitchen.”

“… you let him out the basement?”

She’s already trotting to what must be the kitchen. He guesses. There’s light pouring into the hallway. “You leave your tv set on?”

“Yes. He’s calmer when there’s sounds in the house. Hey, Princess!” she calls as she opens the door, sounding like she is speaking to one of her dogs.

It is _not_ reassuring that all her dogs are enormous and will tear apart anyone who takes a single step into her property without her by their side.

What is not reassuring but is extremely funny, however, is to find out that Ana’s version of dealing with her prisoner is to have him scrub her floor.

“Good boy! That ground looks very clean now, I should find you something for the sink…” She goes briskly to the many cupboards. The kitchen is a chaotic mess and everything looks filthy, except for the ground – that is still very grey, but nowhere as disgusting as everything. “You know, Nines, he doesn’t actually understand anything I say? He seems to like when I talk to him but it’s all about body language so please don’t set him off… hey, Princess, I think I just found… something that may work? It’s twenty years old but you’re a Ventrue so I doubt it’s corrosive enough for your skin. He’s calmer with something to do. I’m not sure he _likes_ cleaning but he looks… better?”

Lacroix looks at her, at Nines, back at her, at the brush and bucket laying close to his knees, and he seems indeed like his comprehension of whatever is happening stops at “someone is there, doing things”. The combination of the dumb look, the oversized t-shirt featuring some 70s cartoon and the tattered jeans would be extremely comical if that very same person hadn’t tried to sever his own arm a few hours ago.

“Alright I’m… Princess!” Ana clicks her finger, getting Lacroix’s attention again. “The sinks look alive so I’m just going to throw up everything and it’s going to be noisy, ok? Look.” She picks a plate; it shatters in the trash, and Lacroix starts as if it were gunfire. “It’s just broken plate, nothing dangerous. I’m throwing it all and then you can wash. This is actually very exciting! I haven’t been using this room ever since I got in because of course I don’t cook but wouldn’t it be nice if it was clean? What do you think, Nines?”

“I… guess it would.” And he wouldn’t have expected Lacroix to be the one doing the cleaning – at least the Ventrue stopped reacting like a plate breaking is something dire, and is resuming his scrubbing of the floor with what looks like real dedication. “Any troubles with the feeding?”

“Nah. He got it all down. Looks like we got very lucky with the blood bags!”

“Let’s hope we didn’t exhaust said luck. I’ve got a new batch.” And with Lacroix being a Ventrue, it’s only a matter of time until he starts refusing blood or throwing it up on the newly cleaned tiles of the kitchen floor. “Are you confident you can handle him?”

“He’s rather sweet. For now.”

“He tried to chew his own hand.”

“Yeah. Foxes do that to, remember?”

Nines opens his mouth to say that’s not an argument in favor of Lacroix – but to her, it probably is.

So he says nothing, because the truth is: he won’t get a better deal anywhere soon.


	4. Book 1, Ch3: Unexpected pen pals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG a new chapter! Isn't it wild?
> 
> But tomorrow is a working day, so you'll all have to have a bit for the next one... I hope you'll enjoy that one!

Nines wakes up with the bad feeling he shouldn’t have left Ana alone with Lacroix.

He was so dumbfounded the night before – but how could he forget to tell her how dangerous he may be? The Gangrel looked like she was in control, and dealing with the Ventrue much better than Nines would… yet a single moment may tip the balance and make him lose a dear friend.

Perhaps Damsel is right. He should be focusing on the war against the Sabbat. He should have stacked Lacroix, locked him somewhere…

“ _Why are you back already? Are you the real Nines? Why would the real Nines come back so quickly?”_

It takes too long a time to persuade her to let him in. Yesterday, Lacroix looked dumb but already on the path to consciousness… what about today? Tomorrow?

When he will become a real danger to Ana?

The gate creaks.

She looks fine.

“Sorry for worrying you,” Nines apologizes. “We need to talk about your… guest.”

“Oh. Okay.” She opens just enough for him to slip in. “He’s watching TV and having some blood. I think we’re making progress, he hasn’t been hurting himself this time!”

“Good.” And he hasn’t been hurting Ana, which is way more important. “Listen, yesterday, I forgot to tell you something.”

She tenses. They are surrounded by bushes, and the moment Ana stops is the moment a low growl erupts on their left. She makes herself relax, yet the ominous presence of the giant ghoul dog remains.

“Lacroix may be a diablerist.”

“Oh. Okay.” She scratches her golden mane. “May be?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure about the source. Just… perhaps I shouldn’t leave him here, with you.”

Ana shrugs. She turns and starts walking back to the house, looking way less worried than Nines expected her to be. “Okay. I’ll see if Princess’ OK with having a dog around the house. He shouldn’t try anything fishy with Sam or Harry or Emma. Is that all?”

“Sabbat’s in town. Be careful.”

“I never go in town.”

“Good. It’s safer if you don’t… and I shouldn’t visit you every night.”

She stops. The old American flag is flapping above their head, light from the house falling on her slim face. There’s music playing inside. “Nines. I’ve got a question. I think it’s an important one. Are you and Lacroix friends?”

Nines’ expression is enough of an answer.

“Because,” Ana continues, “if you are keeping him there, planning to hurt him… I do not think it is good for me. To leave him there. I don’t want my friends hurting each other and – he’s not my _friend_ , but he is living in my house and I’m caring for him. I should not be caring for someone my friend wants to hurt.”

She looks at her feet as if she should be ashamed – but what strikes Nines is that he should have thought about that moral problem before he dropped Lacroix on her lap.

“Look, Nines…”

He must have looked angry. He _feels_ angry, Brujah rage bubbling right under the surface.

“Hey, Ana, it’s not your fault. I’m just pissed off at myself. Yeah, I’m not exactly planning hugs. Lacroix tried to murder me twice, we’re not friends, he’s always been a privileged piece of trash I wanted to punch into the ground.”

“I am sorry.” She sounds like she is. So much Nines gets even more furious against himself, his own stupidity, and the way his moral compass decided to be on strike ever since he took the stupid decision of rescuing Lacroix from the rubbles. “You’re a good man, Nines Rodriguez, I’m just… after everything you did for me, I wish I could _help_ …”

“Listen, girl!” He grabs her by the shoulder and tries not to sound like he’s going to blow off. “It’s okay. Good men don’t leave their nemesis to their friends for babysitting.” To their very lonely, prone to adopt weird creatures friends. “You don’t have to repay me anything. I didn’t help you because I wanted things back then, okay? If you don’t feel like keeping him, I’m taking him back. I’ll manage. I always do, you know? I even tackled a werewolf a few months ago.”

“You’re mad.” Then, quietly : “I’ll miss him.”

“I know.” That’s the very root of the problem: that he left Lacroix with someone who, somehow, would find it in herself to get attached to him.

Nines almost tells her he and Lacroix will be fine, out of habit.

Thing is: the whole purpose of this is that only one of them, long term, is going to make it.

***

“What is _he_ doing there?” Damsel looks like she is going to strangle either Nines, Lacroix or herself. She yells angrily, overturns a table, rants that Nines is just so this and that and _she cannot believe it_.

It was almost fun the first time.

It’s way less fun now that Lacroix is able to perceive the hostility and decides showing his fangs is the best way to express his thoughts on the matter.

“Oh you want to play like that!” Damsel shouts. Skelter and another burly anarch get her, arms around waists and shoulders. “How dare you provoke me on our turf!”

“Calm down!” Nines argues. It doesn’t calm anyone, and Nines ends up stepping between them, hoping Lacroix will find some reassurance in that and not sink his teeth into his back. “Damsel, calm down! You’re scaring him!”

“THAT’S THE POINT!”

“The _point_ is to have a frenzying vampire we can’t control in the middle of the bar?”

“The POINT is to get rid of him!”

“Not now!”

“WHY!”

She almost escapes Skelter’s grasp, managing an alarming lunge forward – that results in an almost inhumane roar right behind Nines’ ear. The Brujah jumps out of reach, fists raised as if expecting a fight that doesn’t come: Lacroix is not _attacking_ , but his eyes are a little too blue even for him and the look on his face is scary enough to send any mortal flying for cover.

Or to send _Damsel_ cowering back, and half the anarchs that were packed around her to restrain or support her.

_Presence. He remembered how to use Presence!_

Now is not the time to consider what else Lacroix knows how to use.

“Okay, the game is over, kids! Anyone who doesn’t want to deal with our new not-friend here can go take a deep breath outside while I lock him somewhere.” No reaction from Lacroix. Well, at least he’s still no understanding English. Nines reaches out slowly, hoping for his hands not to get bitten off and almost afraid to cross Lacroix’s gaze – but though the former prince remains tense, he lets himself be guided to the basement.

“You shouldn’t have brought him here,” Skelter’s voice follows them down the stairs. He does not look as pissed as Damsel was, just… making sense. “You knew they wouldn’t like that.”

“So what? Do they expect me to be perfect? My babysitter failed me at the worst moment, either I brought him to the meeting or I wasn’t attending. Okay, Lacroix, _listen_. If you’re somewhere in that empty head, now is the time to lay low, right?”

No answer.

Of course he would get none. Lacroix looks back with big, blue, almost childish eyes. Body language, Ana said. Great.

“Sit there,” Nines continues, pushing him gently toward crates that are more or less at a chair-level. “Stay.”

Then he steps back, and is relieved when Lacroix doesn’t follow and remains on his crate. “Good,” Nines says, sounding to his own ears like he’s speaking to a three years old, backing away slowly. “Good. Stay here.”

He closes the door to the basement.

 _Please don’t do something stupid like trying to chew the lock_.

Nothing.

“Okay,” Nines says, for his sake more than for Skelter’s. “Let’s go back and hope the others cooled down.”

They did.

More or less. Damsel looks like she wants to behead him on the spot. Nines tries to reassure himself: Damsel is way more bark than bite, and once Lacroix is dead, she’ll let this grudge go. “Before you came in with him,” she spits, “we were talking about a letter we received for you.”

Whispers. Whispers all around, and some dubious eyes.

Since when do they doubt him?

“What letter?”

“We opened it. Sorry.” The anarch who said so hands a piece of paper. No envelope, just an expensive sheet of paper with black flakes of… wax?

“Who the fuck sends letters sealed by wax nowadays?”

“Look inside,” Damsel says. “Look and tell me what you think!”

It’s written in Spanish. Not the one from Nines’ youth: high class Spanish from actual Spain, fancy handwriting, black ink.

_To Nines Rodriguez,_

_It is a great honor to reach out to such an outstanding personality. Genuine Anarchs like you are a rarity in these late Nights. Genuine Anarchs with actual achievements to their name? Even more so._

_You have noticed my arrival in the city. I have ensured you, your friends, and every denizen of this City is aware of my coming. I was pleased to know you survived the collapsing of the Nocturne Theatre. A greeting card should remain that: a non-deadly overture to start dancing. Be assured I would have used incendiary devices had my goal been to end you._

_I believe you and I should meet to speak of the future of Los Angeles. The wheel as been going on and on and on: the Camarilla, the Anarchs, the Camarilla, Chaos. You and I can shape this chaos into a City as brilliant as Carthage before the fall. That City will fall too, yet I firmly believe we must attempt to build it, no matter how doomed our task._

_Let us talk. I have set up a phone number: 213-555-0129. Do not be shy, no Sabbat mystic has yet devised a way to devour fellow kindred through the telephone lines._

_With sincere appreciation,_

_T. de Corte-Real, Archbishop of Los Angeles_

“Is that a joke?” Nines rereads the letter, piece by piece. Archbishop of Los Angeles. Archbishop. Why on earth would a high-ranking Sabbat leader write to him? “It’s all nonsense! Where did you find this?”

“At the Last Round.”

“It’s obviously an attempt to divide us!”

“Yeah,” someone agrees in the back. “Because you’re the only one who’s worth being written to by the Sabbat.”

“Who said that? What do you think, that I want to read this kind of bullshit?”

“We should try the phone number! What do we have to lose?”

“We are _not_ phoning the Sabbat!”

“Who gets to decide?”

“Let’s call them and tell them how we’ll kick their asses!”

“We. Are. Not. Phoning. The. Sabbat!”

Silence.

And then: “Why do you get to decide? I say we vote! Who wants Nines to call the Archbastard of LA?”

***

When Nines opens the door of the basement, it’s a relief to find that though Lacroix is not on the crate where he left him, he hasn’t done anything stupid like chewing body parts, destroying half the place, or been cornered into becoming phone pal with the new villain in town.


	5. Book 1, ch4: Shades of monsters

Nines believes himself to be an optimistic Brujah – but there are nights when it’s just hard to look at the world and not walk away.

He doesn’t even want to wonder – who talked? Does it even matter at this point? No. What matters right now is that somehow, James Callaghan is waiting for him outside the Santa Monica blood bank where he went shopping for his Ventrue pet.

“If I tell you _no, I don’t have half an hour to waste with you_ , will you accept that answer?”

His voice is almost a growl. He’s frustrated – frustrated that he’ll have to work to lose Callaghan to go back to the haven, frustrated because he is certain this is about the letter and the stupid phone call and how he’s been avoiding all the Last Round gang for the last three nights.

“I would tell you: _you are being needlessly unfriendly, mister Rodriguez_. I swear, I have nothing but good intentions tonight.”

James is nothing but honey. Hands in pockets, easy smile, pretty teeth flashing.

Nines doesn’t believe the pretty picture. James looks like some Hollywood cowboy in a suit, but he is probably rotten to the core. Has to be, or he wouldn’t work for High Justice.

“Good to know your intentions may not be so good tomorrow,” Nines answers. He’s not a fool. Tonight, Callaghan needs him against the Sabbat. Once the Sabbat is gone? The alliance will go with the wind.

James Callaghan shrugs. “Well, who knows what tomorrow will be like? Did you believe we wouldn’t catch wind of the letter?”

“Fuck the letter. And the man who sent it.”

“Don’t say such things about Corte-Real, he may well show up on your doorstep and ask if the offer’s still up.” The archon smiles, a sneaky kind of smile that says: _I know something, and I may or may not tell you_.

“Talk if you want to talk. You won’t get anything for your troubles.”

“Did I ask for something? We are on the same side.”

“No, we aren’t.” Nines glares under furrowed eyebrows. What does this Camarilla cop believe? That if he pretends long enough the Anarchs are going to fall for it? “We just happen to have an enemy I despise more than I despise you. Don’t you dare pretend this is free! The Camarilla never does anything without profit.”

“Who says there’s no profit? Sometimes the truth is just the way to go. I know who Corte-Real actually is – are you going to tell me you aren’t curious? That you’d prefer to wait until he finds you to find out what he’s like?”

“Get in the car.” Not that Nines wants to listen – it’s just that he expects he’ll get rid of Callaghan faster if he complies. “You have five minutes.”

“And here I was, thinking we’d go somewhere nice.”

 _Nice_ is not a word Nines would use for his old Ford. James Callaghan’s expensive suit looks out of place on the discolored seats, the rearview mirror is cracked, and there’s a faint smell of oil; but Nines isn’t going to complain considering he never paid for it.

“Can I hope the radio works… ah! Good.” Old 50s rock’n’roll comes out of the speakers, loud enough to keep some Auspex distracted, if Nines guesses right. “Alright. Where to start? Corte-Real is a well-known name in Europe. A former Archbishop in Spain. Recently registered as missing by High Justice after more than two centuries of lording over what he called “Pamplona y León”, which ranged from the Pyrenees to the western cape of Spain. His diocese was mostly famous for its Lasombra pilgrimage in Burgos, and for the long lasting war between De Corte-Real and the Marquis of Bordeaux – which was mostly famous because in two hundred years they did very little except fight for a few small towns and villages.”

“What the fuck is a Spanish Archbishop doing in LA?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? I can explain why he left Spain. Things in Europe used to be… different. A century ago, the war between the Camarilla and Sabbat dwindled to a lull. There were some big Anarchs uprisings from the French Revolution to the eighteen seventies in Camarilla _and_ Sabbat cities, for various reasons ranging from _mortals are rising up so why aren’t we?_ to _my Prince this or my Archbishop that_. It did not help that while some European Elders do hate their Sabbat or Camarilla counterpart with a passion… most of the oldest ruling Elders from all sides have friends in the other Sect. Some of those Anarchs uprising were open criticism of a war that was mostly neonate coteries fighting against newborn packs while the Elders secretly played chest every full moon in their secret palaces.

The war between Sabbat and Camarilla quietened down again after the uprisings. The Sabbat leadership in Madrid was too busy reading their Dark Scriptures to worry about their less religious brethren’ adventures and the Camarilla leaders were gaping at the industrial revolution. The result is that some people were more and more laid back about sect allegiance. De Corte-Real himself started to open the doors of his dioceses to whoever agreed not to piss on his sacred cathedral and to drink from the cup during his Palla Grande, which were rumored to be amongst the greatest parties in Western Europe.

Things changed when Archbishop Visconti of Milan got bored of Madrid and became Prince Visconti instead. The old Lasombras in Madrid came out of their churches, discovered the world had moved without them, and decided to turn back time. They tried to retake Milan to no avail. Each failure to destroy the apostate enraged them, and with each new failed siege they tried harder and harder to purge the European Sabbat. Moderate bishops and archbishops, down to packs of shovelheads with shaky beliefs were burnt at the stakes… as for Corte-Real, there were rumors about his demise, but they was never proven and Madrid is still searching for him.”

“In short: some old Sabbat pariah decided our city was the right place to start anew?”

“Yes. And if you are unlucky enough, he will attract some orthodox Sabbat packs in LA, hunting for him for the sake of Madrid and Mexico.”

“ _Great_.” As if dealing with High Justice and Anarch politics wasn’t complicated enough – now, they have a Sabbat civil war on their plate. “Just a thing, Callaghan.”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever attend one of those parties in Spain?”

“My, mister Rodriguez! And here I was, thinking you saw me as a boring, Camarilla legionary!”

The Brujah’s grip on the tightens on the steering wheel. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being a tool in the hands of dumb Camarilla cops who believe all Anarchs are easily manipulated idiots. “You want me to call him, don’t you? For what purpose? Do you actually fancy yourself as the one who will save the good Sabbat Elder from the bad Sabbat rabid packs? What do you _want_ , Callaghan?”

It seems laughingly clear, the moment Nines asks the question aloud.

“You hope he’ll be your Prince Visconti, don’t you? And that you’ll be awarded the laurels for recruiting him for the Camarilla?”

Laughable.

But Callaghan doesn’t refute Nines conclusion, and that’s all the “yes” Nines needs to know he is right.

“Walstein knows about this?”

“Walstein is a Ventrue. I am a Toreador. We are more… flexible.”

“A weasel is what you are. The moment she’ll know, if you aren’t the one to tell her, I’ll have all High Justice after me and for once they’ll be _right_.”

“All I ask is a phone call. Call him with me by your side. If Walstein catches us, she will Dominate the truth out of you and my head will fall as quickly as yours. I have no reasons to let her know. Keep telling your friends you are postponing the call and I will keep reporting you aren’t doing anything of note.”

“No.”

“ _One_ phone call.” 

“You are the most obvious honeypot I ever met.”

“How hurtful. I have not even tried to seduce you yet and you are already calling me out.”

“Get out of my car.”

“Reporting you aren’t doing anything of note,” Callaghan says, hands already on the handle, “also include not telling her what you are doing with Lacroix.”

The Toreador opens the door.

“I am not doing anything with Lacroix.”

“Sure. You are just a very heavy drinker.” Callaghan winks playfully, as if Nines weren’t glowering at him and looking like he wants to punch his face until his perfect smile turns into a field of broken teeth.

Nines starts the engine and as he waits for the car to deign to move, throws a longing look at the Santa Monica blood bank. Not that he’ll miss the creepy ghoul operating there, but avoiding it until Callaghan moves out of town is going to make his life a little bit harder.

The haven isn’t very far, but Nines makes the drive longer. Only when he feels like he is alone (trying not to think of how the Toreador’s perfume seems to be floating in his car, even with open windows) does he take the turns that bring him to his temporary lodging : a derelict flat that looks like shit, but has a very secure sleeping vault.

That he cannot actually use, because there’s an amnesic Ventrue locked inside.

Fridge first. There’s two blood bags left and Lacroix is still drinking everything Nines throws at him, but he is not taking chances – and now that one source of blood is to be avoided, he is glad he has one more week to go.

He moves to the vault. It was conceived to be closed and opened from the inside, but he took out parts of the lock and moved the heaviest pieces of furniture he could find on top. When the hatch is finally cleared, he is annoyed again that he has to make his life that complicated for a jerk who tried to kill him.

And his annoyance flares even stronger when he finds said jerk huddled in a corner of the vault, looking at him with fearful blue eyes, as if _Nines_ were the bad guy. “Feeding time. Come out, it’s not like someone is going to kick you.”

Lacroix looks back, doesn’t move, and it’s like every second of him looking like a frightened child is one more hour Nines wasted.

“Fine. Don’t come out. I’ll be watching whatever uninteresting trash is airing on TV.”

The blood bag ends up on the low table in front of the set, which only has three channels: one for sport, another about mortal food, and the last one with questionable newsreels that seem to focus on some mortal metal band called _Spectre_ planning some big show for Christmas. The costumes seem funny, with the band leader dressed as a cardinal, all the members wearing silver masks, and upside-down crosses everywhere. _We shall all commune in a great mass in the name of our dark father… But sir! Don’t you think the local Christian communities will be offended?_

Nines steals a glance at the vault. Interacting with Lacroix feels like trying to tame a wild cat that freezes whenever you look at it. “How long until you pick up some basic English again?” the Brujah sighs. “Come on, I’m not going to hit you. Look, there’s blood.” He picks up the blood bag, throw it again on the table. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Lacroix never comes close enough for Nines to touch him – not if he can avoid it. Ana could touch him, could take him by the hand and drag him anywhere she wished, but whenever Nines stands and takes a step, Lacroix freezes like a startled prey.

As if _Nines_ were the bad guy here.

“Look, I know the vault is not the most comfortable place to spend the night.” It was meant to be safe during the day, and it’s way too small for a full-grown person. “But I cannot leave you alone. You’re dangerous, okay? You could kill someone by mistake, you’re a walking masquerade breach, you know that? Of course you don’t. You don’t even know your own name, why would you even know the Traditions?”

“I know the _tradition_.”

The voice is so quiet it almost doesn’t register – and then it does, and leaves Nines gapping because even if Lacroix’s _tradition_ doesn’t sounds like Nines traditions, it is not only a word, but a full sentence that implies Lacroix probably understood some of Nines’ rant.

“You speak?”

Of course, Lacroix doesn’t answer.

It would be way too simple.

“You can speak?” Nines repeats. With a bit of a threat, a bit of anger, because he feels _stupid_. “And you know what the Masquerade is?”

“Yes,” Lacroix replies, fidgeting with a loose thread at the end of a sleeve. With his too big sweater, youthful face and demeanor, he looks like a schoolboy that has been caught smoking in the toilets. “The _mascarade_. My Lord taught to me well.”

“Your Lord? You mean your sire?”

“My _Lord_ ,” he corrects, with a voice that drips with so much respect he sounds like a brainwashed ghoul.

Or someone who is way too afraid. “Your lord isn’t there. You don’t have to have to be scared.”

No answer.

“Do you know who I am?”

No answer.

“Is that a no? It’s not very polite to ignore people when then speak to you.”

“I _am_ polite,” Lacroix answers with a strangled voice, as if doubting his mastery of etiquette was some very low blow. “I have not the right to speak to you.”

“What the fuck? You are in my home, the only who dictates what you are allowed to do is _I_.”

No answer.

“Did your _lord_ forbid that you speak with other vampires?”

No answer.

“You do know you are a vampire?”

A nod.

“Do you understand _I_ am the one providing you with the blood you drink? With the haven you sleep in? That I’m the one protecting you even though _everyone_ wants you dead? And that’s all the respect I get? Your Lord isn’t there! He’s not even on that _continent_! So when I ask you a question, your answer! Do you understand?”

No answer.

It’s one silence too many – because everyone is either pissed off Nines is doing this or unable to understand, because of Callaghan, because Nines doesn’t _like_ what he’s becoming, doesn’t like that he has absolutely no control on what Lacroix is and how fast he will be able to be rid of him.

He slips for one second. One single second, one aggressive step forward, letting the anger waves from his Beast carry him.

It can’t have been only one step. He was by the couch, and now he is looking down at Lacroix. The Ventrue looks like he would melt into the wall if he could.

As if Nines were the bad guy.

At this point, perhaps he is.

He raises his hand – for what? He is not certain, except it’s not to hurt, but Lacroix recoils as if Nine’s fingers were on fire, hyperventilating like some newborn fledgeling who doesn’t know it’s pointless.

He doesn’t fly.

He doesn’t fight back.

He just recoils and waits to be hit.

And there’s nothing Nines can do about him. What is he supposed to tell him? That he’ll be alright? That Nines will not hurt him, when the truth is that he’s just waiting for him to get better and then kill him?

_Just… What kind of monster am I becoming?_

He cannot. He cannot look at that paradox – that childish thing in Lacroix’s body, that thing Nines has been mistreating for days like some kind of Camarilla elder, that thing that stopped to exist a long time ago to become the paranoid Prince of Los Angeles. What is Nines supposed to do, when what he has sworn himself to protect is the same as what he promised to destroy?

He steps back.

He cannot.

He is the bad guy, and it’s unbearable.

“Look, I’m… I have… I have stuffs to do elsewhere. I’ll leave you there for. For an hour. Perhaps two. Don’t leave. I want you to be there when I come back. Okay? Don’t make me run after you.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

When he comes back, the blood bag is empty, and Lacroix is back into the vault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The metal band Spectre is a reference to the real world band Ghost!
> 
> Lacroix needs all the hugs! Don't forget to give him some in the comments!
> 
> Also who would have believed, but I really like James Callaghan. What do you think about him? The plot so far? Should Nines call the "good Sabbat" former Archbishop or is that a very, very bad idea?


	6. Book 1, ch5: Answer me

Tonight is a new day, and it’s time Nines starts to take the lead of his own unlife – starting with the Ventrue in his basement.

“Rise and shine, Princess, you and I have to talk!”

Lacroix gives him a sullen look, but he is either hungry or unwilling to disobey for fear of reprisals and gets out the vault without complaint. He stands at ease like a soldier with a mild _I don’t want to be there_ slouch, answering Nines’ stare with a less than friendly glare.

 _Speak_ , he seems to say silently, _and I’ll see if you’re full of shit_.

Nines sits on the couch. He decided they wouldn’t be confrontational, and he intends to keep this silent promise for as long as he can. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you, sir, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Yesterday you wouldn’t speak to me and now I’m _sir_?”

Lacroix looks away, somewhere beyond the confines of the flat. It is less a gesture of cowardice than of mild disdain. “I will not have you doubt I can be courteous.”

“Your English got better.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You can call me Nines.”

“I will remember that, sir.”

“Is that a polite _I can but I won’t_?”

“That would be inappropriate. You are neither my friend nor my servant.”

“What if I want you to call me Nines?” Silence. “We haven’t even started talking and we are already arguing.” Silence. “How do you want me to call you?”

“According to my station. Either _Damoiseau_ , _Monsieur_ or _Messire_ _Lacroix_.”

“Camarilla titles?” A nod. “What’s the difference between them?”

“ _Damoiseau_ for neonates, _Monsieur_ for ancillae, _Messire_ for Elders. Due to _Damoiseau_ falling into disuse amongst the mortals, in some circumstances _Monsieur_ should be used instead to avoid suspicion.”

“Alright. Which one should I use with you?”

No answer.

Nines resumes, trying not to sound smug: “You were hoping I was going to tell you how old you are, weren’t you?” Lacroix says nothing, but his pinched lips confirms Nines’ guess anyway. “What happens in the Camarilla when someone usurps a title that isn’t his?”

“My Lord is not forgiving of such discourtesies.”

“I’ll just call you Sebastian then.”

“We are not friends.”

“Let’s pretend. What? Your sire wouldn’t approve?”

“My _Lord_ does not look kindly on your kind.”

“My _kind_.”

Lacroix looks at Nines’ face, then at his clothes, from necklaces to shoes, then at his face again, in a way that means he may not even know Nines is an Anarch and would still find him lacking.

Nines asks: “People who don’t have money, titles and expensive clothes, you mean?”

Lacroix looks away, to that imaginary point far above Nines’ head. “I thought you did not want to argue.”

“I don’t.” _But your sire still sounds like an asshole_. “What I am going to do with you?”

Silence.

“You don’t want me to return you to your _lord_?”

Lacroix tenses, and Nines get the confirmation, one more time, that this relationship was probably less than stellar. “Why?”

“My lord…” A long hesitation. As if it would burn the Ventrue’s tongue to speak ill of his sire. “… does not look kindly on… weakness. Of any sort.”

“What would he do?” Lacroix looks away again, but this time it’s shifty rather than disdainful, and Nines wonders if asking wasn’t sadistic curiosity – and he decided, waking up, he would try to do this well and not behave like an abusive bastard. “You do not have to answer if you are… uncomfortable with the subject.”

“He would try to fix me,” Lacroix says, never meeting Nines eyes. “But not for very long.”

“We will manage to get you back in shape.”

Silence.

“What is it this time?”

“You seem to assume there is a _we_.”

Nines sighs. Loudly, and looking like he is starting to get very annoyed – not only _looking like_. If Lacroix were a genuine fledgeling having troubles with his new unlife, Nines would feel much more forgiving. Hell, he managed with _Damsel_!

But this is not some poor, lost kid in need of protection. This is an old vampire who spat on his shoes for years before his last tyrannical bout sent him crashing to the floor, and it makes Nines’ Beast growl that this is getting nowhere.

“So what should I assume, Sebastian? That you’d fare better if I just decided to throw you out? You have no haven, we don’t even know if you are able to hunt and half the city wants your head! Do you think you have a choice in this? Other than walking out and meeting the sun? Is that it, you want to die? Just because you are too _proud_ to accept my help?”

“This is not about pride.”

“Then what the fuck is it about?”

Nines was right to sit, because springing from the couch is enough to burn some of the angry energy that is starting to get at him.

“Basic logic,” Lacroix answers, glaring as if he were still the Prince in the high tower with the Sheriff standing behind him. “Why would I want the help of someone who wants me dead? I have no idea who you are nor why you are pretending to help me nor how I became your prisoner. What do you _want_ with me? An angle to damage my Lord’s interests? To thwart the Camarilla’s response to your petty uprising? I will not become a pawn in whatever plans you and your rabble friends managed to piece together!”

The absurdity of it all is enough – really? This is what is making Lacroix so ridiculously difficult? The idea that Nines may be aiming at his awful sire and that this whole mess has nothing to do with Lacroix himself? “Oh God, Sebastian,” the Brujah manages to spit between two bouts of laugher. “What year do your thing this is? You’re in 2004 Los Angeles, no one even knows who your Lord is! The truth is: you have no real value for _anything_. The _only_ reason I’m trying is because I’m not a total asshole and I lost my chance of ending you! Now you know! Happy?”

Obviously not.

For a split moment there’s a look of utter distress and loss on Lacroix’s face – but it’s even worst to see him try and fail to recompose a mask of disdain. 

_So much for not being confrontational. Why do you have to try to pretend you’re tough when you’re just porcelain throw over butter?_

It should not come to this, every single time, as if something were coded into Lacroix to be so annoying…

 _Stop_. _Remember why you came._

“Can we sit and talk it over?” Nines asks with a tired, annoyed, _please do this or something wrong is going to happen sigh_. “Come on, let’s try to be civil.”

Lacroix sits.

And says nothing, looking sullenly at his feet.

What did Ana say? Body language?

How do you get yourself out of such a conversation?

Nines sits on the couch. What should he do now? Pat Lacroix’s shoulder or something? He extends a hand -but as soon as he touches the Ventrue, he feels him tense, though he does nothing to push him away but look miserable.

So much for body language. Perhaps Nines should just try some heavy Presence and hope it works. “What’s wrong?”

“Do whatever you want.”

“I am not trying to hurt you.”

“Do whatever you want,” Lacroix repeats. “I’m worthless and dead. Don’t pretend I have my say in anything.”

“Alright, you _don’t_. Answer me: what’s wrong?”

“… I do not like to be touched.”

“Okay.” Except Ana could touch him all the time, but well, his call. “You should tell me when things make you uncomfortable.”

“If that is what you want.”

“I am trying to make this work.”

“Thank you,” Lacroix says, words so hollow they are rendered meaningless.

 _Perhaps I should leave_. Give Lacroix some time alone to… what? Digest that his life is a disaster? Leaving him alone doesn’t sound like a great plan – but perhaps staying is worse. The couch feels too small for them both; no, the _flat_ feels too small and Nines feels like he needs a metaphorical breath.

And it’s not like Lacroix is the only problem he has to deal with.

“I have to leave. There is blood in the fridge. Please, Sebastian, don’t leave on your own. The Sabbat is in town, and…”

“Everyone wants me dead. I know.”

 _Not everyone. Ana’s an angel and she actually likes you_.

He should find something nice to say. Nines is so used to being the former Prince’s detractor his dead brain has troubles finding what – but it shouldn’t be that difficult, surely he can find it himself to… He cannot just _leave_!

“You…” he starts, hand on the doorknob. “If we were in Europe and I wasn’t _rabble_ , I would be calling you _Messire_. Whoever your sire was, you got away. You were the Prince of Los Angeles.”

It should burn his tongue to say so, but oddly it doesn’t, because that battle finally feels like it ended – with Lacroix being led away in shame, Lacroix kneeling blindfolded, Lacroix looking at him with empty eyes and cleaning Ana’s floor and looking like a frightened child.

“You managed to steal an Anarch city all by yourself. So you see, you weren’t _worthless_.”

_I hated you, Sebastian, but damn you, it was more of a feat than I was willing to concede at the time._

Nines turns the doorknob.

“Thank you.” The voice is quiet, and Nines doesn’t want to see Lacroix’s face – just in case, because Nines is not ready to see him weak. “Thank you for telling me.”

There is a war outside, and another painful conversation to be had.

“You’re welcome,” Nines mumbles as the door closes.


	7. Book 1, Ch6: Fun time at the Hanged Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to return with a short chapter! No Sebastian in this one, but the plot is going forward :) I hope you'll like it!

The Hanged Man is packed tonight, and the mood is heavy like a summer night before the first detonations of a storm.

Part of the tension is born of the looming war. Nines steppes in, and the first conversation he catches is of weapons being stockpiled; the second is about him, and he pretends to ignore it as he makes his way to Skelter and Damsel.

“Where were you?” Hands on her hips, brow furrowed, the girl looks ready to claw the answer out of his mouth. “Busy with the Prince?”

“He’s not Prince anymore.” And Nines gives her a glare: _kid, I’m not here to discuss him_. “I had my own stuffs to do.”

“Everyone was expecting you yesterday!”

“Never said I’d come.”

“They were hoping –“

“That I’d take the lead? Good grief Dam’, if they want someone to follow whenever they want to shut down their brains, the Camarilla’s right across the street! You never think I’m doing more harm that good here? I’m not in L.A. to be everyone’s role model or whatever.”

They don’t have the upper floor like they did in the Last Round, and the booth they are packed in isn’t as private as Nines would have wanted. He doesn’t know why – if it’s the threat of the war, or because he knows they all disapprove of what he’s doing with Lacroix, or because someone here spilled the beans to Callaghan; but tonight the music sounds too loud and Nines wishes they were all alone in a quiet place.

“What’s up man?” Skelter asks, and he sounds like he’s ready to listen. Hell, even Damsel looks a bit softened. Not good, not good. They all need to gear up, not to be dragged down by whatever is making Nines that somber.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, more like no,” Damsel retorts. “Some of the guys have issues with you, Nines, so if there’s something weighting, you should unload that before you have to face them. I’m not gonna shout.”

“Shit Dam’, I look that bad?”

“Say, what’s up?”

Big sigh. Nines scratches idly at his cheeks, where his beard as been in a two-day stubble state for decades now, and he hasn’t shaved it into anything more classy this morning. “Stuffs. Camarilla and ex-Camarilla related. Sebastian and I talked.”

“ _Sebastian_.”

“Right, I’m out.”

She catches his arms before he manages to squeeze himself between Skelter and the table. “Hey! I said I wouldn’t shout! No teasing allowed?”

“ _No_.” He sits back, because it’s that or looming awkwardly above Skelter’s large frame. “Want me to call him _Messire Lacroix_ instead? Or _the Prince_?”

“I don’t know but it’s getting weird. Are you still planning to off him? Because if you are, well you know it’s the old farm moto: don’t name the animal you’re gonna kill.”

“I’m not _offing him_. Too late for that now.”

He eyebrows shoot up. “So what? You’re keeping him? After everything he did? For fuck’s sake Nines, he doesn’t deserve a single cent from you! Did he mess with your head?”

“The only one who messed with my head is myself. Wrong idea, wrong execution.”

“Now what?”

“I keep him. What else should I do? Throw him away? He’s not in a state to survive on his own. He’s my responsibility until he can leave.”

“And then?”

“ _I don’t know_. Do I look like I have a plan? Next subject! Want to know why I wasn’t there yesterday? Callaghan ambushed me outside the blood bank asking about Corte-Real. Turns out that, one: someone here is telling the Camarilla everything that’s happening in our meetings and two: there’s some sort of Sabbat civil war and Corte-Real is on the run from his side’s big shots, so it’s likely we’ll have _more_ Sabbat coming after him.”

“About that,” Skelter starts somberly. “We got news from the Anarchs in San Diego yesterday morning. Some vanguard pack chopped a few heads and let one single guy go from the attack to carry a message: the Sabbat is hunting for a traitor, and unless San Diego let them go through their territory _en masse_ , they will purge the city until they can make it unhindered to Los Angeles.”

“Will they stand?”

“They have a rant tonight and we’re all here to discuss whether or not we can send them any help. Make the stand in San Diego rather than here.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Damsel agrees. “Because what do we have to send exactly? We’re spread too thin already! The mood’s been very low and some are just hoping you’ll pull some magical solution out of your ass. Or…” She takes a few deep breaths, the kind she doesn’t need for the sake of hair but just to calm their nerves. “Some have been considering a call to the Anarchs of the other cities through the States but you know how it goes: if they leave their cities to come save what’s left of the Anarch Free States, most won’t be able to come back. They’re going to think twice and we don’t know how many will come. Jonas says Isaac Abrams is right to strike an alliance with the Camarilla… and that your unwillingness to talk to them may cost us L.A.”

“Fucking weasel.” Nines wondered who talked, and now he wonders no more: Jonas has been aiming to become Baron of South Los Angeles for years, but the Anarchs here are as unruly against his leadership as those of Downton were with Lacroix’s attempt. “Fool must think he’ll finally have some power if he goes Camarilla. They’ll just use him to mope their floor.”

Damsel opens her mouth and closes it, swallowing her words and turning her lips into an angry smirk as a group of tall, bulky men make their way toward them. The tallest looks down into their booth: tall black man with a handsome mouth, sullen eyes and a voice that rumble deeps as he snarls: “Behold, Saint Rodriguez has descended from his hill to grace us with his presence.”

“Good thing you’re here, Jonas, just when we were speaking about you.” Nines stands. Too bad there’s still a table between them, and he’s trapped between that and the wall. A fight would turn in his disfavor in such a setting. “And your new Camarilla friends.”

“You heard the news about San Diego?”

“Yeah. Someone is covering their rant?”

“ _Hunting for a traitor of the Sabbat_. Did Corte-Real say anything about that?”

“How impolite to answer a question with an unrelated question.”

“You called him like we all decided?”

“T’wasn’t _all_ considering I was dead set against that,” Nines almost growls, Beast waking up and circling under his skin, because the music has gone out, so did the conversations, and he’s been backed into a physical corner.

“Should have expected that,” Jonas pushes. “Prince Rodriguez does whatever he wants, why would he care about the votes of the majority?”

“Yeah, why the fuck would I care exactly about a vote you initiated right before you sold me to the Camarilla? You were the one who called from the back for me to make that phone call, weren’t you? Right before you ran straight to James Callaghan? Hoping what, I’d be dumb enough to call the Sabbat and then get fried by High Justice for that?”

“The fuck, Rodriguez? Did your pet Lacroix whisper that paranoid trash into your ears or did you hatch that just by yourself?”

“Lacroix has nothing to do with this mess!”

“He’s just yet another example that you don’t give a single fuck about anyone’s opinion but your own! We all asked for his head! Where is he? You think you are the only one who’s got any rights on his head?”

“What’s your problem exactly?” Nines shouts, fists closed, blood burning in his veins. “That phone call? Lacroix? Or are you just pissed that I’m less of a loser than you are? You want Corte-Real to talk, _you_ call him, and if you’re angry I spat on High Justice’s offer to be best friends just fucking call them and deal with that _yourself_! But don’t go around reporting on me to those guys –“

“Or what?”

Jonas’s hand looms close to his gun, and so does Nines’, and that has the Hanged Man’s Toreador owner shout “No fight in the house! No fight, you hear me?” from behind his counter. The two Brujah remain still, tensed as two wildcats eying each other for the first pounce, neither willing to back down – not that Nines can back down, as there’s nowhere to go, and he’s not going to sit back and lower his head for that traitor.

“Guys! What the fuck?” Heads turns toward the newcomers. Not Nines’, not Jonas’, still locked glare into glare and ignoring everything else. “Hands of the gun, guys! We got news of San Diego!”

Heads turns, and this time Nine’s and Jonas’ follows, because the tone is… not alright.

The newcomers are a boy and a girl, embraced in High School or something like that by the look of them; the girl’s still clutching her cell phone with a shocked look on his face. Nines remember them faintly. Enough to know they are on the same side, not enough to know their names, but they definitely showed up in some rant before. “What’s up, kids?”

“The San Diego rant…”

“Yes?” Jonas urges, finger still itching.

“The Sabbat. The Sabbat attacked the rant! Threw a gas truck at them! Blew it up in the abandoned bus station where the San Diego Anarchs met!” The girl weeps, mumbling names and Nines remember somehow the two came from San Diego one or two years ago. “They had loudspeakers, shouted at the survivors _give us the traitor or all of your will burn, yours saints and your angels, give us the traitor or we’ll drain your all_. They say almost all the San Diego big shots were there and they can’t get a single word from them! They’re probably all dead already!”

The Hanged Man erupts in what sounds like a thousand angry voices. They all meld together: _help San Diego, will they flee here, talk with the Camarilla, fuck the Sabbat, give up and run, give them Corte-Real, talk with Corte-Real_ – utter chaos, and Nines stands there thinking only: _what a disaster_.

They are two days into the battle for San Diego, and already it sounds like the war is half lost.


	8. Book 1, Ch7: Terms and touches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nines and Lacroix have a talk, and this chapter may be upsetting for some of you: self harm happening on screen and panic attacks. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this chapter!

He breathes in, deeply. Nines doesn’t need air; he seeks the soothing motion. To breathe in, then expulse some of the anger nestling in his chest.

He should be doing one thousand things – but dawn is closing on him. Perhaps he should have gone to another haven. It’s just that this one, this one is Nines’ most secure, because of the vault and the escape routes.

Secure. But is it the safest, with Lacroix being there?

A breath in, another out.

Nines must calm down. He cannot afford to be easily provoked with… he doesn’t know, yet, if it’s better to think of him as Lacroix or Sebastian. The Ventrue is too unstable, too damaged; it is Nines’ responsibility to be the steady one, which is laughable considering one is a Ventrue, and the other one boils with Brujah blood.

_I can do it. I’ve helped kids that were in worst shape than he is._

Not many, though. Ana, perhaps. Damsel? Definitely not. She was really noisy, a lot of fuss for wounds that closed quicker than Nines would have thought.

_Come on, Armando Rodriguez, you survived a werewolf, what’s some unpleasant quivering ex-prince?_

He opens the door.

And is not welcomed by a frenzying vampire. Or a sobbing vampire. Or anything equally threatening or embarrassing.

“I was starting to wonder if you were coming back,” Lacroix greets him with his best _mildly bored_ voice. He is sitting on the couch, wearing an oversize hoodie and pants that bag around his ankles, but with his back so straight and his hands nicely tucked on his hips, and he looks like he missed of point of siting on comfortable furniture. “How was your night?”

“Absolutely terrible.” And to make it clearer, Nines takes off his battered shoes and kick them away. As if that could make any of his problems follow the same course – it’s not working, of course it’s not, because life cannot just go hide in a corner. “Why are you asking?”

“For politeness’ sake.”

“Your night?” Stupid question. What could Lacroix do except watch the news on TV? At least he didn’t escape.

“I pondered on our relationship and how to make it functional.”

 _Functional. Great._ “Enlighten me.”

“Are you certain? I can wait until tomorrow evening. You look –“

“Angry?” Nines snarls. “I’m a Brujah, I’m always more or less angry, learn to deal with it.” _For fuck’s sake Nines, don’t you start behaving like an asshole when for once, he’s done nothing wrong._ He sighs, breathes out, starts to pace and resumes. “Look, that’s not what I meant. What I mean is that I’ll be angry a lot and that most of the time it’ll have nothing to do with you. Try not to take it personally.”

Sebastian nods, face neutral, as if there has been not outburst at all. “While you were gone, I have started working on a contract.”

“For what?”

“Our relationship.”

 _Oh, please don’t tell me that’s how Ventrues make friends._ “Really?” Nines sits in the couch, as far away from the other as possible. They both need their space, he guesses; and while Sebastian remains straight as a pillar, the Brujah slouches as much as he can into the worn cushions and starts to drum on the couch with his fingers. “What’s in the contract?”

“For a start, you asked that I tell you what… behaviors, I am uncomfortable with. So I have listed them and I would like you to read them carefully. No, not now,” he says hastily, as Nines is leaning forward to grab the papers on the table. “I’d rather… not be present when you read that.”

“Okay.” Weird, but alright. Nines falls back into the couch. “So that’s the things I have to agree not to do?”

Lacroix nods. “If you want to agree. You are the one with power here.”

“Let’s not get creepy, alright? I’m not aiming for this… thing, relationship, whatever, to turn into a power struggle.”

“Of course not. For us to enter a power struggle, I need to have power in the first place,” Lacroix delivers, rather flatly. “And while I do not like that, it would be foolish not to acknowledge the power imbalance. You said so yourself: without you, I am nothing – hence, you are my world, and I need that world to be less … hostile than it has been so far.”

Lacroix’s voice is shakier than he would want, at the end; Nines can guess, because he is starting to get used to the little hints of embarrassment: that faraway look, hands clasped like some old photograph and yet not relaxed. It’s the kind of weakness seeping from the cracks in the mask that makes him want to call the Ventrue Sebastian rather than pompously stick to his last name.

It’s unpleasant to admit, for both of them – but Sebastian is right, and Nines feels his annoyance rising because damn it, he should have thought about that! Thought about setting boundaries or whatever, and how to make this whole thing less creepy than it is!

“Okay.” Nines doesn’t like it. That contract thing. But it’s a better idea than stumbling into this as he’s been doing from the start. “That’s one sheet. What are the other two about?”

“Debts.”

“Fuck no!”

“Can you let me explain?”

“Debts are… what the fuck!” He stands, paces, rubs at his nose. “Who do you think I am? Some Camarilla overlord? I don’t do debts! I am not helping you because I want some refund in the end!”

“Is this about _us_ , or about _you_? What if I want to compensate you?”

“You do not need to!”

“I. **want**. to compensate you. Or am I too worthless for that?”

“That’s not what I said!”

“No. Because you think about your position rather than mine. I don’t want to be your charity project. I want to believe that one night, I will have repaid all the debts and you and I can stand as equals. So if you want to help me, we will sit down tomorrow and decide together just how much I owe you for your protection, your help… and everything… everything I did… to you before… all of this.”

“Remembered some?”

Sebastian looks at his papers, at Nines, away, at his papers again. “About? You and I?”

“Yes.”

“I…” One very long hesitation. “On to point three. I know we are close to dawn but I would appreciate –“

“Do you remember or not?”

“ – _don’t interrupt me_ _!_ ” Sebastian yells with a tone that is bordering on childish. With his oversized clothes, the hair hanging down his face that are definitely longer than they used to, he looks like some high school nerd that has just been bullied one time too many. “For God’s sake _don’t interrupt me!_ What was I saying? Where’s… where did I… where’s my list…” He mumbles incomprehensible words while he searches in all his papers, until he extracts a slightly crumpled one with bullet points and letters that look like they were written by a child’s unsteady hand. “Have I… where… have I already… did we settle the debts already?”

“Are you alright?”

Dumb question. The ventrue looks like he would be crying already or something like that, if crying came naturally to vampires.

“Sebastian?” Nines reaches out, and then stops. Right. No touching. “What is wrong?”

“I…” He looks down at his list. “Can we start back from the beginning?”

“Of what?”

“Of _this_. I don’t – I don’t remember where I was, I’ve – I have no idea if we already – _why did you interrupt me!_ Are you happy now?” He stands and starts to pace, voice shrill and tugging at his sleeve and circling like a trapped animal. “I’m so _ridiculous_ I’m sure this is what you wanted why did I even try I look so _stupid_ I want – I want –“

“ _Stop_!” Nines stands, and then he doesn’t know what to do, exactly. _What_ do you do with a vampire that went from sensible to malkavian mess in a heartbeat? “Listen,” he tries, with the deep, flowy voice that’s always there when he wants to show off to the newbies. Play the cowboy. Try to tame unstable ex-princes twice his age. “We can start back from the beginning, okay?”

“What for? It’s pointless – why would you take me seriously, why pretend I make sense I – I’m weak and pitiful and I’m worthless so why the fuck would you want to take into consideration anything I say, I don’t – what happened? What went wrong? Have I angered you?”

“ _No_.” Nines closes the space between them, and then stops, close enough to touch if he wants, but not yet – because he doesn’t know if this will help or if Sebastian will try to bite, once he is done scratching at his neck with enough force to make his nails bloody. “Sebastian. Stop. Stop hurting yourself… Sebastian, are you listening?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m always listening. Always. Tell me what to do. I’ll be good. I promise.”

“Stop scratching, stop… can I touch you?”

Sebastian freezes.

Good.

Or is it? “Give me your hand,” Nines asks. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

“I messed up,” Sebastian answers with a small voice. Scratch. “I planned everything,” scratch, “and I messed up.”

“No. You were good. I promise. Can I take your hand? Thank you. Can I see your neck? Can I touch you? Good. Just let me look. I am not going to hurt you. I am just taking a look. Do you want to go back to the couch? I’ll grab you some blood in the fridge to heal that. Just two big scratches, nothing dire, should heal real easy, okay? We take care of that and then we can talk about everything you planned.”

“I don’t remember where I was,” Sebastian answers with a pleading voice. “I – I sound so _stupid_.”

“No, no you don’t. Sit. Good. Keep your hands where they are while I fetch you some blood.” And hope it’s the right blood but so far, everything has been the right blood and now is not the time to consider that. “I had absolutely no idea about how to… make us work. It’s great that you did, okay? Real good work. We’ll just grab the list and read all the bullet points, one after another, or we can just sit and see what’s on TV and read that tomorrow. Is that ok?”

No answer.

When Nines comes back, Sebastian’s hand is at his neck again, nails resting right where it meets the shoulder. Not scratching, not yet, and the wound is closing already.

“Here, thirsty?”

“Thank you.”

“Why were you doing that?”

“What?” Sebastian mutters, lips already reddened by the content of the blood bag.

Now is definitely the wrong moment to notice he has nice lips – it’s probably just the Beast speaking anyway, because of the drop of blood that’s tainting them red.

“The scratching.”

Sebastian looks away.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine.” Nines should just let him have his blood and some quiet time. Probably. And hope the silence doesn’t grow awkward enough to trigger another crisis. “Anything I can do?” he finally asks, once the blood bag is empty.

Silence.

“You can tell me.”

Silence.

“Why don’t want to tell me?”

“You’ll refuse.”

“Why?”

“I want to go out. Just for a little while,” Sebastian adds quickly. “It’s almost dawn anyway. I’m just – I’m – I don’t feel — can we just go outside? I promise I will behave.”

 _This is a terrible idea_. But the Ventrue is looking at Nines like a _no_ would hit as hard as a sledgehammer in the face, and Nines is too tired of this whole situation. The last thing he wants now is his charge looking like a beaten puppy.

“Okay. I guess we could go to the roof for a while.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait until you see the view,” Nines warns him, putting on his shoes and regretting already – what if this is all a plot to escape? An elaborate act to lower his guard and then… what? Dash in the hallway? Jump from the roof?

Lacroix is a Ventrue. It’s not like he would harm himself jumping down a three stories building.

Nines is a Brujah, and he’s positive he runs faster.

But Sebastian follows obediently, up to the flat roof, where the only attraction is very battered couch and a few garden chairs encircling an ugly plastic table; cigarette butts everywhere, a few empty bottles on the ground, and the blue light of a neon sign.

“Hope you aren’t disappointed.” He bites down a _kid_ at the last moment, because he can’t let himself be fooled by Sebastian’s behavior; this is no fledgling, Nines must remember.

The ventrue looks up, head thrown back, skin blueish and eyes full of the cold light from the neon. “There’s no stars.”

“In L.A? Too much smog. Too many cars.”

“That’s sad.”

“I… guess it is.” Though it’s not something Nines ever pondered on. Sebastian looks down and starts exploring – not that there’s a lot to explore until he settles in a corner of the roof, where someone put some pallets, just high enough for someone to sit on them and watch the street bellow from above the low wall. “Anything worth looking at?”

The building’s not big, but Nines picked one that was high enough to jump down the nearby ones, and he can see the towers of Downtown easily enough. Rows of little lights between the walls of the ugly blocks in this street, and in their midst, the tallest: Venture tower.

And when Nines joins Sebastian on the pallets, he finds the blue eyes looking at this high monstrosity, head half hidden in his arms, pale hair brushing his jaw in what was probably a fashionable haircut two centuries ago. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“I’ve been feeling… like I must return somewhere.”

“To Downtown?”

“Those towers?” Sebastian gives them one long look. “I don’t think so. I’m searching for… a good place.”

“Not like L.A?”

A long silence.

And then: “I do not know if this is because you have been making a point of repeating everyone in this city wants me dead, or because I was miserable here, but no, not like L.A. This city _hates_ me. I can feel that like… a smell. It’s everywhere. It’s – I don’t know how I can describe it, but… I’m. I’m not sure I want to put words on this.”

What is there to say? It’s not untrue, and Nines definitely did nothing to make the self-proclaimed prince of L.A feel welcome – but what is he supposed to do about that? Lacroix was his enemy, a threat, and a threat that proved to be a snake with a bite; and he may well return to being a snake, once his brain remembers where it stashed the memory boxes.

A police’s siren call rings in the night, shrill and lonely.

“Where would you go?” Nines asks. “If you could choose?”

Sebastian shrugs. “Does it matter? I have no timeline. Sometimes I catch myself not breathing and I need to remember I do not need to. I feel like this place is important now, but maybe _now_ is one hundred years away from **now**. Perhaps I returned already and then left again. I don’t know. I told you, there’s nothing in my world but you – and my Lord, but you say he is on the other side of an ocean, so I’m trying not to think about that.”

“I was almost flattered until you put me and your sire in the same sentence.”

Silence.

“Want to talk about what he did to you?”

Silence.

Then: “Not now.”

He raises his hand to his neck, and Nines catches it before Sebastian starts scratching. “Sorry,” both say at the same time, and then it’s silence again as both wait for the other to start again.

Nines first – because dawn is coming, and makes him impatient. “Sorry. Didn’t have the time to ask – is it okay if…”

“Yes. You may.”

 _Oh God, I’m now asking permission to hold hands. This is madness_. “We have to go down. Sky’s lightening up.”

“I know.”

“You are not considering staying here, aren’t you?”

“No.” A pause. “Not since you got me out of the hole, though I admit I do not feel like going back to that flat ever again. I know, I know, I have to, I cannot go sleep in a dumpster. I just don’t _want_ to, but I will.”

“Okay.” He will, but he’s not taking a single step in that direction, until Nines does without releasing his hand – and Sebastian follows, but it’s easy to guess he does so like a prisoner being dragged to his cell. “I’ll figure something out to… I don’t know, take you somewhere nice. Well, nicer than this, shouldn’t be that hard.” _And now it sounds like an awkward date_. “And quiet. If the war allows me.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And if the war allows, tomorrow shall be a better night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they have.......... made *some* progress (and are now holding hands, though not in a romantic way)
> 
> (yet)
> 
> (we'll get there)
> 
> (one day)
> 
> (hopefully not in 40k words).
> 
> Reviews are always much appreciated, Nines needs your support and Sebastian would like some hugs in the comments \o/ Enormous thanks to Iravaid and Traillbits for the support !


	9. Book 1, Ch8: Nice night out at the Pier

It’s a wet night over Santa Monica, and it makes the city even sadder that it usually is – not that Sebastian seems to care, and the spring in his steps makes him look like he’s going somewhere _nice_.

Granted, there are worst places to be than the Santa Monica pier.

There are also quite a lot that are a lot more fun.

Nines remembers a time when the pier was prime hunting ground. Groups of young people hung there at all hours and a few secluded spots where perfect for flirting, boys putting hands under crop tops and Kindred’s teeth grazing skin. None of that tonight. As the Brujah and the Ventrue walk side by side, they share the planks only with a few gulls that fly away when they approach, the distant sounds of boats and wind. It’s all yellowish light from the old lamppost and flacking walls.

Yet when they reach the end of the pier, with nothing but a few benches, Sebastian looks more relaxed than he’s ever been with Nines. He pulls his long hair out of his face in what is becoming an automatic gesture – he considered cutting them again, but Nines likes that everyone expects Lacroix to look like he’s out of the 40s, so they’re keeping him with the teen rock band aesthetic for now.

“Meeting’s in twenty minutes, I should be back in one hour max. If I’m not…”

“You said there was no reason for anything to go wrong,” Sebastian reminds him, voice neutral. “We went over this. Back to the main street, hail a cab, move away, find a phone, call the Hanged Man. Hope your friends listen to me.”

“It won’t come to that. I’ll be back before you know it. Will you be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Sebastian asks, demands, orders: Nines is not quite sure. “Focus on the arm deal, get it gone, come back. I’ll be waiting and I’ll expect you to return before I grow bored.”

“Someone is getting demanding.”

“Get moving, Brujah.”

Nines does, but he can’t keep himself from looking back one last time – he can’t help it, can’t help being slightly worried, even if Sebastian isn’t tired yet and looks very lucid. Nines remembers the terms of the contract, the long list of _do and not do_ that the Ventrue managed to pen, how easy it would be for him to switch from well to unwell. But then Sebastian turns back, as if he felt Nines’ gaze on his back, and there’s no reason to linger.

The arm deal is pure routine. People Nines knows, met before, business as usual, except his order is ten times what it usually is, and involves heavier fire power. Sebastian is right, no reason to be worried – except someone talked to Callaghan, and that means even the surest sources look shady.

Fifty minutes, and Nines’ back on the planks.

Sebastian hasn’t moved at all. From afar, he’s just one more drifter waiting for time to move on without him: small frame in a too big sweater, hood pulled over his hair to protect himself from the drizzle, fake relaxation in every limb and pretending he is only watching the dark sea rolling.

It’s an act. Nines has been in enough fight to know the Ventrue heard him coming from afar.

“Bored yet?” Nines calls. He would be, doing nothing for so long. Ventrues are patient types, they say – Brujahs? Living faster.

“No. I’m trying to figure out if that ship,” Sebastian points as a floating mammoth anchored at sea, lights blinking above the horizon, “is the Carnival Pride or the Carnival Spirit.”

“Looks like some small floating city.”

“Yes. Both are Radiance-class cruise ships.”

“How do you differentiate them if they are of the same class?”

“Very small details that are probably not distinguishable at night though to be honest, with the state of my memories – could be anything from the Island Princess to Oosterdam and I wouldn’t be able to be certain of anything past: _this is probably a Panamax ship_.”

“You lost me.”

“I think I like ships.”

“Sure you do. You can’t remember how old you are but you know everything about Panamax ships? This is weird. Weird but… sort of reassuring. Perhaps the good memories come back first.”

Sebastian’s smile drops, just a little; but while it was oddly fond, now it looks like the fixed thing he wore while he was Prince. Fixed and fake. “I do not think that’s how it works.”

“Right.” _Wrong move_. “Want to tell me everything about what a Panamax is?”

And God does Sebastian know a lot about that – and it would be an extremely boring talk about the Panama Canal, widths and maximum boat beams and draft and versatility of Panamax versus scale economies of Post-Panamax megaships if the Ventrue didn’t look like he was _genuinely_ having the time of his life. With smiles that would have melted hearts had they been directed at the L.A denizens during his power grab.

Who knew that all it took to get a human response was environmentally disastrous sea monsters built for the amusement of the rich?

Not that Nines care in this moment. He doesn’t know if Sebastian is unknowingly dousing him with Presence, or if it’s just that it feels like they are stuck in a bubble, but for the first time since the theatre collapsed, Nines just feels… _there_. And _there_ is a nice place, nothing complicated, no one to come and beg for leadership or awaken the Beast or aim a gun at their head.

Too bad the bubble must break, and the pin that pops the balloon is a single silhouette waiting under a lamp post as they walk back toward the creepy parking lot at the entrance of the pier.

 _Fuck_.

Of all the times – of all the people who could show up now!

“Stay behind me,” Nines whispers, before he shouts to the intruder: “Get moving, Callaghan. If you want to see me you know where to call for an appointment.”

“We need to talk about San Diego…”

“What’s hard to understand when I tell you to get moving?”

“… and what happened at the Hanged Man.”

“Sure, and you aren’t going to call for reinforcement to get your prize back? If reinforcement isn’t there already.”

The Toreador lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Really, Rodriguez, if I wanted to stage an attack, you think I would announce myself? A talk is all I want and you can’t say we don’t _need_ one.”

The Irishman looks calm, arms crossed and his whole body relaxed; it’s probably an act, but it’s an act Nines doesn’t feel like trying himself – this whole situation, it’s making him _itch_. Like a burn crawling in his veins, centering in his spine; something like the instinct of a wild beast that has been disturbed as it was caring for its pups.

It’s all about Sebastian, Nines realizes, and how the Ventrue became his to protect with each crisis, with each downward glance, with each proof of how damaged he is. The Brujah can’t say if it’s a trap, if the Ventrue figured out Nines will always jump to the defense of the weak, or if it’s not – but the moment Callaghan’s eyes go past Nines to look at Sebastian, fists close and the Beast growls.

Callaghan’s right. The Anarchs will have to talk about San Diego at some point.

But not with Sebastian here, not with Nines knowing exactly what Callaghan thinks of him.

“Nines.” The voice behind his shoulder is quiet. Almost too quiet to go over the drums of the Beast beating in Nines’ chest, and not enough to dissolve an inch of the Brujah’s anger. “May I touch you?”

If Nines’ heart were still beating, the poor thing would miss a beat – because that’s his line, and he never asked Sebastian not to. He nods, and he feels like the fast rhythm of blood slows when the Ventrues fingers wound around his wrist. “Is it about the war?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to keep you from duty.”

“Will you –“

“I will be fine.”

“You sure?” Stupid question. “Remember how to use that?” Nines extracts his gun from his side holster. Big revolver, powerful enough to stop the biggest bulls with a single bullet. “It’s a – “

“Smith and Wesson 500, five shots, .500 magnums cartridge.” Sebastian smiles as if Nines handed him some shiny Christmas toy. “Enough power to blow a vampire into torpor at short range.”

“Anyone but me tries to get close to you, do exactly that.”

“I will.”

It sounds like a promise – and Sebastian’s hand leaving Nines’ wrist feels like cold wind entering a warm house.

As Nines walks toward Callaghan, back turned to the Ventrue, he wonders if he has a death wish. Lacroix tried to kill him twice, and here is Nines, handing him his own weapon, walking with his back open to an attack. He feels sudden dread crawl between his shoulder blades. What came over him? Did Sebastian use some Presence? Or was Nines acting on his own dumb, self-destructive impulse?

“Well,” the Brujah almost snarls to Callaghan’s face. “I’m here. Say what you will and go to hell.”

The Toreador’s attitude remains unperturbable. “Charming.” Not aggressive, not even _defensive_ , and that leaves Nines neither more nor less angry than he was. “I heard about San Diego,” the archon whispers.

“Big surprise.”

“Do you still believe Los Angeles can afford fighting on its own?”

“We always managed.”

“You are leading the Anarchs toward a collective suicide.”

“I’m not their leader.”

“Yes, you are. Whether you want it or not, your words have weight and that gives you responsibilities.”

“You’re here to lecture me?”

“ _No_ ,” Callaghan affirms, and for the first time, let his voice betrays his annoyance. “I’ve come to try to patch things up and show all the good will _you_ won’t go for – not that it’s your fault after Lacroix gave all of you such a good taste of Camarilla diplomacy.”

“You talk too much.”

“I’ll tell you how I get my intel.”

Now, that’s a surprise, enough to take Nines aback and pierce through the thickening haze of Brujah anger. “Why?” It makes no sense! Why lose such an advantage? And for what? For Nines to trust him? That battle was lost way before then even met!

“Because,” Callaghan answers, “I want us to win and we won’t do that if you antagonize your fellow anarchs with false accusations. Jonas Williams has nothing to do with me – truth is, no one came to me to report on your rants.”

“Are you kidding me?” Nines snarls, taking a step forward that brings him face to face with the _servire_ , fangs barred, closer, _too close_.. “You expect me to swallow that?”

“It’s the truth. I got my intel from Jeanette Voerman.”

What?

_Jeanette?_

One step back, purely out of astonishment. How does Jeanette Voerman of all people factors in all of this? It doesn’t make any sense! “You expect me to believe that?”

“Yeah,” Callaghan answer, one eyebrow raised. “I can even explain you how.”

“Humor me.”

“None of your Anarch friends talked to _me_. Some talked to her, and it turns out Jeanette is a very chatty pillow talker. To be honest I cannot believe she is dumb enough, nor I talented enough to get so much intel without her noticing – if you are searching for someone who is trying to down you, it’s _her_.”

“That doesn’t explain how you found me at the blood bank.”

“Therese Voerman owns said bank. That’s why I met the sisters in the first place.”

“You have answers to everything, haven’t you?”

“No. I have no answers to Corte-Real and _you_ are the one he wants to talk to.” This time, it’s Callaghan stepping forward; not threatening, voice low and warm, and it’s no wonder easy Jeanette fell in bed with him. “Remember what I can offer, Rodriguez. Tonight, you are lucky I’m the one catching you with Lacroix. If you want to keep him and to keep him safe, you need _allies_.”

“Don’t pretend you can convince Walstein to let him go.”

“Right. I can’t. But I can convince her Lacroix will probably die in this war without her lifting a finger and that antagonizing you over this is pointless. For now. Later? There won’t be a later if you Anarchs can’t agree on a common course. The Camarilla presence in L.A is too weak to withstand such assault and they aren’t planning on sending reinforcement until the Anarchs are all dead _or_ agree to negotiate. Do you think Abrams wants to work with us? Guy’s a pain in the ass, hoping the Camarilla will die to protect his own troops. Therese Voerman? You know her better than I do, she’s got her own agenda and it includes her being still alive to enjoy her sodden beaches once this is all over. Now, Rodriguez, what’s your agenda? To let the lady Damsel become Tenth?”

“You’re going too far!” And it’s a pity there’s no room to step forward – they are so close each of Callaghan’s word brushes against Nines’ curled lips; it’s too close for a punch, too close for anything that’s not a bite, and a bite looks dangerously personal. “You think I am not trying my best?”

“I think you are too busy pretending you are no leader,” Callaghan breathes, “to understand that without a leader, the Free States will be dead soon. Your _best_ is not what the city needs right now – what L.A needs is for you to drop an ounce of the pretense you are the Virgin Mary of the Movement. Get help where you need it: from us, from Corte-Real if he’s willing, and why wouldn’t he be when they are hunting for him? Or will you deny that a former Archbishop must have priceless intel to share?”

Nines disengages, turning his back to the _servire_ and his stupid notion the pace. His gaze goes over Sebastian, leaning against the corner of a battered video arcade, and Nines wonders if Lacroix would have been stupid enough to consider that option.

Though he doesn’t know what is the dumbest course. The _easiest_ is to dig his heels, stay true to himself. No cammies, no sabbat, don’t get fooled twice. Is that the best answer to the crisis, though? Or merely Nines letting himself be blinded by his past experience?

Would calling Corte-Real be stupider than handing his gun to Sebastian?

“What I don’t get,” Nines says, voice low, turning back to Callaghan. “Is why you don’t call him yourself. It’s not like his number is a secret thing, every Anarch in town knows it.”

“Ah.” A smirk. “That would be neat, but others tried. Anyone calling is asked to provide a name, and if it’s not yours…”

“No one tried to lie?”

“Doesn’t work. Whoever is at the end can see – well, hear through it.”

“This is ridiculous.”

A shrug. “Elders are like that.”

“One more reason not to interact.”

“Night’s a boring life without a few weirdoes. You’re kidding yourself if you think there’s no Elder pulling your strings anyway, so better be aware of what the strings are and watch the show unfold.”

“What’s wrong with you, Callaghan?”

“Former journalist,” the Toreador answers with a smile. “So? Will you consider it? That phone call versus me softening Walstein.”

“I’ll think about it.” It’s neither yes nor no, and Nines it’ll be enough to get Callaghan off his back for the rest of the night. “Sebastian? We’re leaving.” And hoping there is no ambush between them and the car.

There’s none.

And it’s nice to feel the weight of the gun in Nines’ hands again, still slightly warm from Sebastian’s.

“You should not call,” Sebastian says, quietly, once the doors of the car are closed and his sullen silence is starting to feel odd. “Corte-Real will play you like a fiddle. Pretending to be friendly and getting under people’s skin is his specialty.”

“What?”

“What was hard to understand?”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s like post-panamax megaships. I just know.”

“About an Archbishop half a word away?”

“He’s not half a word away, Pamplona is literally on the other side of the Pyrenees, on our doorstep.”

“You do remember you are in America?”

“I don’t feel like I am, right now. I’m – I suppose those must be memories set in the South of France, and I suppose I must have spent quite some time there. I know who Corte-Real is. He’s out of your league and the best you can do is avoid him at all cost. He will _see_ you as if you were nothing but clear thoughts circling behind a glass panel. He will see everything you are, everything you are not aware you are, and he’ll make you swallow that until you are ready to dance to his tune.”

“You think that scares me?” Nines is not, never was afraid of himself – he’s always been true to his values, never compromising himself for the sake of cowardice. “The Anarchs downed Elders before. He’d better not try to bully us in our own courtyard.”

“You Anarchs downed _me_ ,” Sebastian answers with a dry chuckle. “As endearing as comparing me to the like of Corte-Real sounds, you must realize that if Corte-Real is the queen on the board, I’m lesser than a pawn.”

“So what do I do? I’ll have to make some concessions at some point, cannot fight a war and protect you and refuse every alliance thrown my way!”

“Yes,” Sebastian agrees. “For a start, if what you gain from all of this is me being allowed outside – then don’t. I would rather remain a prisoner than have you expose yourself that way.”

“Fine. I’ll take that into consideration.”

Nines starts the car, avoiding Sebastian glare because he is starting to sound like Lacroix again. He doesn’t say anything when he feels his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket, and once they are home, Nines waits until he has left again to check the sms.

_See U 2morrow @Confession 2talk? Dont bring L. James_

The Brujah looks at it long and hard, because the Confession isn’t a place he is used to; feels like the first place a hunter would go to seek Kindreds. And he knows what Callaghan wants from him – exactly what Sebastian doesn’t want him to do.

But well.

_Ok see u 2300_

Sebastian Lacroix is the one who lost L.A, it’s not his decision to make.


	10. Book 1, Ch9: Under the mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter \o/ All the festivities have made me slow and tired so forgive the typoes. I may proofread next year when I'm not in a constant food-induced haze.
> 
> Hope you will enjoy this !!!

“Do you have something planned early tonight?”

“No,” Nines lies, because yes he does, and no, he isn’t going to tell Sebastian _Callaghan_ is tonight’s main dish.

Especially not when the Ventrue looks at him with a glint in his eyes, the same look an extremely good-looking poster child may give his schoolteacher to get away with mischief.

It’s not a Ventrue look at all.

And that’s probably why it’s working and Nines feels like indulging him. “Wanna go somewhere?”

“A library that covers French landmarks and History. I could remember who Corte-Real is but only within a specific timeframe that implies he was relevant to me between the 1840s and the 1930s. I believe I could remember other pieces of the puzzle if I had pictures and events to build on.”

“Makes sense.” Nines isn’t sure this is the best idea, walking unsupervised into what may be an episode, but well – it’s not like he has a choice. Sebastian needs something to do with his nights; Nines needs him to be back in shape before the Sabbat moves from San Diego to Los Angeles. “There’s a public one a few blocs away but be warned, I don’t exactly have a card there.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Sebastian answers with a smile.

He is right.

It isn’t.

And it is a little chilling to see him chat with the girl at the exit, friendly smiles and asking _hey, you are working late, the weather this, heard that on the news?_ Chatting just enough to get her attention off to slip in his Dominate commands: _You registered those already? Thank you, miss, have a good night!_ And here they are, leaving with ten big books that Sebastian Lacroix stole effortlessly from a public building.

“We are bringing them back once you’re done,” Nines affirms, though he knows he’ll be too busy to do so – he just doesn’t want to admit this is his first time stealing anything for a Ventrue’s sake.

“Of course we will.” Smooth answer. Does Sebastian believe it? Probably not. Sounds believable though, and that makes Nines wonder how much of all of this is a well-constructed act – until Sebastian adds with a beautiful smile: “Thank you for your help.”

And that smile, it makes Nines wonder – is it some piece of Lacroix’s past that died before L.A, or merely something he used to hid under the mask of the Prince?

***

The church looms like a red eyed monster over the street. Young men and women clad in leather, black lace and vinyl smoke under a great portal; Nines walks into a cloud of smoke and stops. Loud music comes through the open doors. Electric guitars, a male voice chanting about rats and society, definitely not anything one might expect in the house of god, but the Brujah does not expect hunters to be deterred by bad music. The entrance’s walls are plastered with posters of a band called _Spectre_ , and that the main singer wears catholic robes and a silver mask does nothing to lessen Nines annoyance.

He starts when a hand lands on his arms, but the man to whom it belongs is no fanatic with possessed eyes.

“You’re late!” Callaghan greets him cheerfully – or that’s what Nines thinks he reads on his lips.

He isn’t going to tell him he was shopping for Sebastian. Isn’t going to make excuses. Nines shrugs. He should not let the Cammie thinks he is in any hurry to see him, should not let him think Nines wanted to see him. It’s good he is late. Callaghan is getting cocky.

“Things came up,” the Brujah tries to say nonchalantly – as much as someone can sound nonchalant while shouting over loud music. “Wanna bitch about that?”

“I can’t hear you !”

“I said – “

“Come with me!”

“Where? F – “ Gone already, and Nines has no choice but follow to a booth in one of the aisles. Still noisy (and occupied until Callaghan sits with a look that makes the previous occupant leave for the dance floor), but if they speak loudly they may, perhaps, be able to hear each other. “What do you want?”

“To speak with you alone!”

“You call that alone?”

“I can barely hear you, think anyone else can?” Callaghan laughs. “I love what they did to this place!”

“I don’t!”

“And what do you like, Rodriguez? Mexican speed-metal?”

“To the point!”

“We need to talk ab – _fuck_!” The _servire_ digs into his pocket for his cellphone. “Boss calling, I’m sorry! We’ve been trying to get in touch but this is brand new House T gadgets and working like _not at all_! I have to take this!”

“You kidding me?”

“I’m not the one who was late! Your turn to wait!”

“Fuck you!”

But Callaghan is already slipping out, mouthing something like “have a drink while I’m gone be right back”, and it is just so damn _annoying_! Who does he think he is? Does he believe Nines has nothing to do but wait for some Cammie servant to cater to his boss? That he’ll wait _here_ , in a club he doesn’t even like?

Fuck no!

He gets out of the booth, back to the orange tiles of the dance floor. Bodies writhe around him; he slips between them, smelling sweat and cheap perfume, and _damnit_ he is hungry enough that the prospect of trying to get someone’s attention is slightly tempting – Beast salivating, veins pulsing with each beat of the music.

Still the same band.

_You'll soon be hearing the chime  
Close to midnight  
If I could turn back the time  
I'd make all right_

Maybe Nines should stay, just long enough to feed. He’s here, _blood_ is here, in each of the men and women dancing in the red haze that is the Confession: crimson lights shining through cigarette smoke.

_How could it end like this?  
There's a sting in the way you kiss me  
Something within your eyes  
Said it could be the last time  
'Fore it's over!_

Maybe he should stay.

It’s not so bad. Once Nines forgets to be worried about hunters, pissed about Callaghan, once he stops to think about anything that isn’t the blood, the beat of the song, the play of lights against sweaty skin…

_Just wanna be  
Wanna bewitch you in the moonlight_

“Leaving already, stranger?”

_Just wanna be  
I wanna bewitch you all night_

“I was,” Nines answers – not sure how he can hear that sultry, low voice with how loud the music is.

Not sure why he wanted to leave.

“Why?”

Not sure.

_It keeps on giving me chills  
But I know now_

“I want to dance with you,” the voice says, like the water of a hot bath, honey and fingers brushing on shivering skin.

_I feel the closer we get  
To the last vow_

The kind of voice you don’t want to say _no_ to.

 _But I should_ , Nines thinks, as the stranger’s arms wound around him. _What am I doing?_

Presence.

Of fuck.

“Afraid?”

“No.” He should. Damn it he should. He should be angry. He should want to run. He should struggle. He should…

“I have longed to meet you, Nines Rodriguez.”

 _How do you know my name?_ “Who are you?”

He should not want the answer.

He should not want that answer as if it were the most desirable thing the night has to offer.

Fuck.

Do they see them? Those shapes around him? Why does Nines feel like there’s nothing in this place but himself and the body pressing against his back?

“I wrote you a letter.”

“Corte-Real.”

“Pleased to finally meet you, Armando.”

“Are we on first-name basis now?” _Please tell me we are._

No.

_No, do not tell me we are._

A low chuckle against his hear.

“Do you want us to be?”

“No.”

“ _Liar_.” Sweet, mockingly sweet, seeping into Nines chest, into his bones… “Tell me what you want. Come on. I heard you are a brave one.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Nines answers, and he is alarmed at how little anger he can put in these words – he should be furious, he should be seething, Beast clawing and…

All he feels is empty.

Like…

Like his Beast has gone to sleep.

And for once, he feels like he misses the rabid bitch.

“I would rather go fuck with you,” the voice answers, “but I don’t bite into unwilling partners.”

“What do you want?”

“Wrong question, Rodriguez. What do _you_ want? We have little time for this dance. Cardinal Polonia is leading the charge. He will clean San Diego like a hunter cleans the corpse of a deer; dear, irate Polonia is nothing if not thorough. Were I you I would tell the San Diego anarchs to trap everything they can and move here to make their stand. The cardinal will have to throw the party San Diego deserves for his troops of brainless fanatics. Once he is done he will need secondary objectives to pursue, as he knows he cannot hope to find me quickly; dangle Lacroix in front of his nose. He offended him in New York, and how hard can it be to down a defeated Prince? Talk to Strauss about using the sarcophagus as bait – and if you do, _do not open it_.”

“You really think I want to have a war council with you here and now?”

“You have no idea what you really _want_ , Armando.”

“And you do?”

“Oh, yes. Clear as the stars on a cloudless night, sailing on the waves of the Atlantic. You hide behind the disguise of the perfect Anarch, and why would you not? Poor family, rootless boy, where is the sire? So _predictable_. You believe you fight against the structure while you behave exactly like the structure made you – a petty gang leader who does not know how to step up. Afraid they will see you for who you are? How you love to bask in their admiration? Will they admire you still if you change? Poor Armando, stuck in stasis at so young an age! Do they know you never want to win? What would you do with peace? You became important as Lacroix’s detractor – what would you do without him? Will they all understand you are some useless nobody who doesn’t know what he is doing? Now, what do you _want_ , Armando?”

Gone.

The arms are gone, and when Nines spins on his heels: nothing. He is alone in a crowd of tasty blood dolls, music pulsing through his veins, head foggy and intensely clear at the same time – Corte-Real’s words circling: _what do you want?_

He wants air.

He wants to get out.

He wants to be back to the flat and run his hands through Sebastian’s hair.

He wants –

He breathes in the night air, music loud against his back. Sebastian is right: no stars to be seen above; head thrown back, Nines feels like weeping. It _is_ sad. How long since he last saw the stars?

He wants –

“Are you leaving?”

He turns.

Callaghan.

He was there with Callaghan.

To…

_What do you want?_

“Are you alright?” the Toreador asks, and that infuriating half smile plays on the corner of his lips.

Red light shine on his face.

“Your boss?” Nines answers, voice strange and distorted through the haze.

“Oh, well, that damn thing finally worked and…”

And Nines grabs the phone, caring not that he is too fast, crunches the devices as if it were paper in his hands.

What he wants does not involves Callaghan’s boss.

“Okay,” Callaghan’s eyebrows shoot up. So _nice_ to see him surprised for once. “Are you…”

Nines steps forward. Brings them closer, one hand grabbing the Toreador’s collar, another one landing on his waist. He feels him tense, just like Nines can feel his own fangs against his lips before he crushes them against Callaghan’s.

_Why the fuck did I wait to do this?_

Because it feels so good – arms closing around him, digging his fingers into short hair, the leather of Callaghan’s jacket under his skin, his tongue against Nines’…

And Corte-Real’s voice, like warm fingers brushing against his spine, whispering: _what do you truly desire, Armando?_

He should not be able to feel breathless – but he does, when he lets go of Callaghan’s lips long enough to order: “Let’s get a room. Now.”

But he is. He is breathless, he is lost in the mad beat of his heart, in the red light, in the clouds of smoke and the hands against his waist.

And it feels too fucking good not to dive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from Ghost's song Dance Macabre!


	11. Book 1, Ch10: Kiss me and get the fuck away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned this chapter contains Callaghan being sexy and Nines being a dumbass, as well as Annoyed Sebastian Lacroix.
> 
> Hope you'll like it <3

They chose the first hotel on their way out – shitty place with wallpapers stained with humidity, sheets that saw better days, the sirens of an ambulance seeping through the low-quality windows. Nines barely registers. Too busy watching Callaghan, eyes fixed on the nape of his neck as the man pays for two hours, eyes fixed on his shoulder blades as he climbs the stairs, eyes on his hands as he turns the key into their room’s lock.

And then: eyes on his lips, when Callaghan turns with hands already taking care of disposing of his leather jacket. “You ever done this, Rodriguez?”

“No,” Nines answers, kicking the door closed behind his back. “Sounded like too much risks for little results.”

The Toreador chuckles. He closes the distance between them, arms around Nines and pulling him closer, nose nudging against his neck. “Yeah, if you don’t know what you’re supposed to do with those fangs, Nirvana’s doors remain closed. It’s not exactly about dicks anymore.”

Though that doesn’t stop him from working on Nines’ belt. “What are you doing?”

“Foreplay. I heard that’s what civilized people do,” Callaghan says, going on his knees. “Unless they want the fun time to last ten minutes with no build up.”

“So sex is your Toreador art thing?”

“Want me to answer every silly question you have? Because I have only one mouth.” A mouth that curves into a mischievous smile, as expert hands get ride of Nines’ pants. “Rule number one, Rodriguez: beginners don’t bite.”

“Why?”

“Don’t want to get my throat ripped out by a drunk newbie, no offense.” Nines should probably feel offended, but he doesn’t – Beast’s still too asleep to care, and what he wants now is to get his hands in the _servire_ ’s hair, to feel that body against his, to _feel_ more than the usual empty touches. “Rule number two, no disciplines but Presence, no weird powerplays. Want some hardcore stuffs, you find someone else.”

“Right, how about you get started? Or is the endless talking how you define _foreplay_?”

“Rude,” Callaghan chuckles – but then he does shut up and gets his lips working on something other than words. Nowhere as stellar as it used to be when Nines was alive, it’s pleasant enough to have him recline into some battered, out of fashion armchair, head thrown back and legs apart; letting the pleasure build up slowly. Warm, wet pleasure; short nails digging into his tights, not sharp enough to hurt.

Now, that’s when the spectacle usually gets boring – vampires don’t come from touch on skin as humans may, and that’s why Nines stopped bothering decades ago. He’s relaxed enough to moan and he’s waiting for more – what is the fucking point in going to bed with a vampire that sleeps his way through half a town if not to –

And that’s when Callaghan bites.

Fangs sinking into Nines’ thigh, replacing one building, slow, cool pleasure with a sudden, overwhelming wave of _oh shit oh damn this is so good please please more don’t stop,_ loud moans turning into pants.

“Nice start?” Callaghan chuckles, tongue licking at his bloodied lips as the haze of orgasm disperses.

“Start?”

“What, you challenge a Toreador and expect to get a single blow job out of it? Darling…”

One more chuckle, deep and low; the tip of a longue running over red lips; eyes dark as the feathers of a crow.

“… this is just the beginning.”

***

“Stop distracting me.”

“Just saying good night.”

“I cannot use my goddamn keys with your goddamn face licking my neck.” That, and the lock of the building Nines and Sebastian have been living in these past nights has always been difficult – working on it, with Nines having troubles focusing, takes a ridiculous amount of time.

Not that he cares.

It has been a fantastic night so far.

Nines mumbles, as the key finally agrees to open the front door: “You are not going in. I’m keeping Sebastian all for myself.”

“Poor boy,” Callaghan purrs. His teeth graze over the tender skin between neck and shoulder. It’s so late, it’s not like anyone is going to see them, and if they do? It just looks like a regular kiss.

Not that Nines cares. He feels drunk on whatever Corte-Real did to him, on Callaghan’s Presence and on the pleasant daze of highly rewarding sex. “He’s cute. I like his hair and he has nice lips.”

“I’m sure he has no idea how to use them.”

“Now that’s mean.” But most probably true. “Stop speaking bullshit, kiss me and get the fuck away.”

“Rude.” But he obeys, and his tongue is as playful as it’s been all evening, and when Callaghan pulls away, the night feels colder.

Colder and darker, in the stairs of the building, and then the lights of the flat look too bright – and Sebastian, Sebastian looks really not amused. “Good evening.”

“Someone looks _pissed_ ,” Nines remarks. Now, that’s definitely one ventrue who did not get to relax tonight. The table is littered with open books and notes, and as always, poor little ex-prince sits as if some school teacher with a stick were behind him, reading to hit his fingers and yell: _sits properly!_

“Please tell me you have a perfectly sane explanation for bringing James Callaghan here.”

“He drove the car.”

“He drove the – why? Where is your car?”

“I am not sure.” Somewhere nearby the Confession he supposes?

“How can you be not sure about what you did with the car?” Sebastian stands and fuck, what the fuck, he looks like Prince Lacroix now, and Callaghan is right – that mouth doesn’t look like it wants to have fun. “You brought the enemy here and we have no mean of transportation to move away until sunrise! Do you understand the situation we’re in?”

“Get down your high horse your highness! Who d’you think you are? I don’t take orders from _you_! I don’t like your tone! What gives you the right don’t speak to me that way?”

“Common sense!” Lacroix snaps. “I hope you had a good time behaving like some depraved lowlife rabble because this is going to – “

“Who do you call depraved!” He’s…

Okay.

It was some slutty depraved good time.

And Nines should have found someone to do that much sooner.

But that doesn’t explain how Lacroix _knows_.

“You didn’t even bother to heal the bites marks,” the former prince answers bitterly. How did he know? Can he read thoughts now? “ _Rodriguez_. Can you even hear yourself speak?” What? “You are thinking aloud.”

Oh.

That would be a very wrong time to think about how Sebastian’s hair look really soft then.

“Go sit on the couch.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t move from there.”

“Someone’s bossy tonight,” Nines grumbles. “I don’t like that. You sound like a pissed kid.”

“Do you need blood?” Lacroix asks, tidying the desk and putting all his books together. “Do you have anywhere close we can reach before sunrise?”

“Maybe but it’s a shitty place and you’re a literal princess, I’m sure you have _standards_.”

“My standards right now are any place Callaghan doesn’t know of. Write the address on paper and how to get there.”

“I know how to get there.”

“For God’s sake do as I say. You either drank drugged blood or been demented or both, you are in no state to deal with anything. Don’t be difficult and write the address.”

“I can call Damsel to pick us up and bring us to a pretty place.”

“ _Give me that phone_. Do you really think it’s a good idea to go find your anarchs friends and explain we don’t have a haven anymore because you slept with a High Justice officer?”

“But it’s a _shitty_ place and I want to throw you on silken sheets.” Lacroix pretends he cannot hear, busy as he is putting books and clothes into old sport bags. “And then I’ll fuck you in them because now I know how to do that. Or maybe not, maybe I’ll just cuddle you and touch your hair all night.”

“Write down the address.”

“But it’s a bad place.”

“I don’t care if the sheets are silk or t-shirt thin cotton.”

“But…”

“ _Tell me the address_. We have a city plan somewhere, I’ll figure this out.”

“Stop being bossy –“

“ **Stay on that couch**.”

“But I want to shut you up.”

“Sainte Marie mère de Dieu, sauvez-moi des imbéciles.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I want to kiss you.”

“Tell me the address and I’ll consider that.”

Now, that’s a good reason to give it away, even if Nines knows Sebastian won’t like the place at all – and he’s not certain it’s a real problem that Callaghan knows where to find them. Once someone fucked you senseless and you got them inside you, surely them knowing where you life isn’t that shocking of a –

“For GOD’S SAKE RODRIGUEZ WILL YOU SHUT UP.”

“Oh I’m sorry you don’t want to hear I had a good night? You don’t like to hear about other people being happy because you’re a miserable, angry little person who wants to rule over all of us and feel important?”

Lacroix's only answer is to throw a bag full of books on Nines' knees. “Give me your gun.”

“Why? So you can shoot me?”

“So I can defend us while you carry the bags.”

“I can defend you, princess.”

“Nines,” Lacroix, or Sebastian, or whoever this is with the small crafty smile intones, “give me the gun, carry the bags, follow me without acting like you’re six, and I’ll kiss you once we get there.”

Oh, good idea. May be worth it. “Okay.” But Lacroix is a liar. “I want one kiss now and another one once we get there. I’m not _cheap_.”

“Fine.” He extends his hand and Nines obediently stands and gives him the gun – and then the Ventrue takes his hand, delivers one quick, dry kiss on the knuckles and lets go. “There. A kiss.”

“But –“

“I promised a kiss, I never said what kind. Now get those bags and if we get to the other place quickly enough for you to wash your mouth of Callaghan’s putrid smell, you will get the second one.”

“I want a French kiss. With your French tongue.”

Lacroix rolls his eyes, nods and opens the door.

And Nines follows, because it sounds like a nice promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sainte Marie mère de Dieu, sauvez-moi des imbéciles.” => Saint Mary, holy mother of God, save me from morons.
> 
> Spoiler alert: Nines will of course not get his French kiss because Sebastian still has some self esteem. 
> 
> I hope you liked this disaster of a chapter ! What could happen now! Once Nines gets down the Cloud of Dementation???


	12. Book 1, Ch11: I remember what it's like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail the dumb chapter titles lol.
> 
> Have a good read everyone !

The sun goes down, and Nines Rodriguez awakes in an old bath tube.

The bathroom is dark, with barely a hint of yellowish light coming in from the main room; the naked lightbulb on the ceiling isn’t working. Won’t be anytime soon. That haven is so derelict, electricity hasn’t been a thing in there for one or two years – god the look on Sebastian’s face when he tried to switch it on.

Or tried the tape and found there is no running water.

And that the only truly dark room is the bathroom.

Good thing Sebastian didn’t agree to spend the day in the tube with him. Good thing he woke up earlier than Nines, because that gives him a few minutes to get his nerves together as bits of the last evening come back in waves.

The Beast twitches as Nines reviews – tries to review it all. The humiliation burns hot, like acid running through him; he extracts himself from the tube and smashes his fist against the mirror. _Fuck_. Fuck it all – the loss of control, the utter powerlessness when that asshole ambushed him, the whole train wreck with Sebastian.

And Callaghan.

Damnit Callaghan.

He is not sure he regrets that one, except the part when he asks him to drive him home.

Nines lets out a dramatic sigh.

It’s not like he can stay hidden in the bathroom. Sebastian must be in the other room – it’s not like Nines can avoid him forever or pretend nothing happened. Better not wait, they’ll have to face the aftermath at one point.

A deep breath in.

Damnit. It’s just _Sebastian_. Who has the upper hand in this relationship?

Yesterday night? Definitely not Nines.

Better not wait.

The single room is dark enough that’s hard to see how shitty it is. Old windows with cracked glass, flacking wallpapers and mold on the wall, one smelly couch. Sebastian Lacroix preferred the uncomfortable chair he slept on (after he refused to share the bath tube) and is sitting by a table like he trying to touch as little of it as he can.

“You are awake,” the Ventrue states, calmly, without taking his eyes away from his papers. Weak light from a street lamppost fall on them; not enough for human eyes to read.

“I, huh, I think I have some lamp stored somewhere, if you want…”

Sebastian looks up, irises shining blood red instead of greyish blue. “I can read just fine.”

“You have night vision? I thought that was a Gangrel thing.”

“It’s a fairly basic manifestation of their blood. I learnt that front a fellow _Sentinelle_ when I was young. Do you feel better tonight?”

“Hm, I… suppose. I mean.” Nines was not feeling unwell the night before. He had been feeling better than he ever had, to be honest, and with no sense of right or wrong or threat. No fear, no limitations but his own desires. “I’m done saying inappropriate things about you and your hair and –“

“I see,” Sebastian interrupts him. “Before we start, please tell me you have another haven than this… place. Not I haven’t had worst in the past, but if I cannot leave the place we stay in I would like to at least have running water and light.”

“Sure. I’ll have to call someone to fetch us though. Or to find the car and bring it there.”

“Fine. Call them to bring the car, we will deal with yesterday in the meantime.”

“Can we just pretend this did not happen?”

“What part?” Sebastian asks. Nines cannot see his face very well, shadows engulfing half of the Ventrue’s profile, but he can imagine the raised eyebrows from his tone alone. “I do not think we need a replay of what happened between us, as I was present the whole time, nor do I want a detailed summary of your time with Callaghan – though we may need to delve into that… but I do believe everything that came before that needs to be explored. Your meeting with Callaghan and the one with Corte-Real.”

“How do you know about that?”

“You have been _extremely_ chatty yesterday. Now, I understand you would rather not relieve any of that…”

“Right. I don’t.” It makes the Beast itch, and it makes Nines want to smash things.

Not that Lacroix cares for his answer. “… but I fear this is unavoidable, so better get on with it and leave it behind us.”

“I said I did not want to speak about this,” Nines growls.

“And I say,” Lacroix insists, “that we **have** to. Not out of pleasure but because we need to understand what happen – and perhaps I can be of some help to clarify some things.”

“Clarify what?” Nines spits. He starts to pace, to the small kitchen space. A doorless cupboard is still full of useless plates and chipped bowls. “How some old creep played me?”

“Yes.”

Cheap ceramic breaks. And it breaks noisily, when thrown upon a wall, though the silence that leaves afterward weights down heavily. “Why do you want to know that? For the pleasure of seeing me humiliated?”

“Humiliated?” A sharp laugh, and then Lacroix’s voice goes up, like it does whenever he used to be pissed about rabble refusing to bow to his words. “For God’s sake Nines, do you think being played by bored Elders is some novel thing to me? My sire was four hundred years old when I was Embraced, what do you think my youth was _like_? Be assured I did much worst than sleeping with a Toreador and flirting like a drunk. Those things are like storms. They happen and there is nothing you can do about that except accept they happened. Now can you please sit on that disgusting couch and get on with it before I get lost in this discussion?”

Nines doesn’t.

He paces. Considers breaking another plate, maybe getting out for a bit of fresh air; but the truth is, that would solve nothing, and one can’t burry a problem that is still sitting at one’s doorstep.

He has to think about this.

No matter that it feels like some dark monster curling under thin ice – panic and terror, circling in the water, almost out of sight but still threatening to bite.

“L.A isn’t like that,” Nines starts. Still pacing. “Before you came, L.A was a free state, no old monsters to play us like puppets! If we unite against him, if we all hunt for him…”

Except Nines doesn’t know what he wants to hunt Corte-Real for. To kill him, as revenge for how powerless he felt? To fall again under his voice’s spell and beg him to enslave him?

“Nines,” Lacroix calls, though it’s more of a Sebastian voice, sweeter and more fragile, and the ventrue’s expression is less icy now. “You cannot take decisions in such state. What happened last night is not only a matter of wounded dignity. We need to know what Corte-Real did to you… and I may help with that.”

The ventrue stands and approaches slowly. They meet where light floods from the street, pale and painting Sebastian’s face with sick, washed out yellow; red eyes still shining, reflecting the light in a cat like manner, he looks like the mask of the civilized prince has been chipped away.

Monsters. They are all red eyed monsters – that one looks sweet, but Nines knows very well his fangs are poisonous.

“Nines,” Sebastian repeats. “You do not need to be ashamed. You stole me from death. I owe you life debts, blood, haven, protection. I am _yours_. What happened will stay between us.”

He stops, close, too close for Nines. The things he told him yesterday – how can Sebastian still want to be close to him after that? Say such things? And ask, with that sweet tone that was never his as Prince: “May I touch you?”

“You still want to?”

No answer, but Sebastian’s fingers slipping between Nines’. “You weren’t yourself.”

“The things I said – “

“How many debts were those worth? A week of blood? Two? Would you feel better, if this blunder or yours was compensated?”

“ _No_.” But the amount of debts Sebastian owes is so staggering, many kindred fled their cities for less than that; and Nines wants to get rid of such chains. “Consider all the blood paid. For the troubles.”

“Alright. Will you help me do this? Keep me on track if you I start to repeat myself? I’m… not exactly as… well, as yesterday. But well enough to do this with notes and with your support. Will you? We can go through this. Together.”

“Are you unwell because of my stupid behavior?”

“I’m unwell because I’m a broken thing and I won’t be mended in a night,” Sebastian answers, Lacroix’s demeanor coming back with each word. “Do not blame yourself for that. Now, let’s get this done. Do you want me to sit with you, or somewhere where I will not be able to see your face?”

“You sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“This is not my first time, remember? I’ve dealt with situations like this before.”

And it shows.

Clinical questions, one after another, prying with surgical neutrality: who initiated the meeting? Who chose the Confession? Who arrived first? When did Callaghan leave? How much time until he came back? Did Corte-Real make eye contact? Physical contact? Did he touch exposed skin? Were there any call for actions or rephrasing of past events included in what he said?

It’s surprisingly easy, actually, to answer when there’s no mockery, no personal comments, nothing to show that Sebastian cares or judges or is doing something more important than preparing his shopping list.

“I don’t know, does handing us a war plan counts as call for action? He said the leader of the Sabbat is a guy called Polonia and that you would know who he is.”

“I do,” Sebastian answers as he strikes the last question from his list and writes his answer in incomprehensible shorthand. “But I’ll give you my analysis later or I fear I’ll… later, alright? I need to see the big picture. Anything else?”

“He told me I like to be a loser.”

“I am sure he did not phrase that with those words.”

“Last time we spoke about him, you said exactly that: _He will see everything you are, everything you are not aware you are, and he’ll make you swallow that until you are ready to dance to his tune._ Your words.” And then… “You knew him.” Silence. “You met Corte-Real before and he pulled the same trick, didn’t he?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer, gaze lost somewhere past the sad wallpapers of the abandoned building.

Until he does: “Yes. I remember how it felt. Not when, not where, not how. I just remember that I never thought he was lying, or that he would hurt me. I was afraid – but not of him. I… am still afraid of many of the shadows that haunt my memories. He is not one of them. That doesn’t mean anything. Feelings are never to be trusted with Elders such as him. You never know if it’s you or the blood speaking. Now, on to Callaghan. Did he say anything about your odd behavior? Were you the one suggesting he bring your home, or did he?”

Questions upon questions, all of them delivered as if Sebastian were doing a survey about Nines laundry habits and didn’t care much.

Including when he starts to move on to Callaghan. “When you were together, were there any sort of dirty talk that you find odd in retrospect?”

“… what do you call odd?” Probably everything, considering how proper Sebastian looks right now.

“Things you wouldn’t say.”

“I’m sorry, I am not really into dirty talk so I am not certain…”

“Things like using Presence in bed and Caine gave us discipline to climb the curtains faster.”

“Climb the curtains?”

“Literal translation.”

“You really asked those questions before to other people or are you just making this up for fun?”

Sebastian sighs. “ _Think_.”

“Using Presence in bed is weird? Why? I mean, if both participants are –“

“Please Rodriguez, may we stick to me being the one asking questions? Those are standard High Justice procedures, I did not make them up and I do not have opinions on this matter because sleeping with fellow kindreds is both dangerous and useless depravity. Stay on topic.”

“Well, _that_ is certainly an opinion. Fine fine, back on topic. He did say something along the line of God gave me this body, Caine gave us presence, I’m not sure. Honestly I wasn’t listening to most things he said.”

“I think we are done then. Be mindful of memory losses, OCDs, strange voices, bouts of anxiety, and plan your next nights thoroughly. If you ever find yourself wanting to go somewhere and you did not plan for that, call me.”

“You think someone dominated me? Callaghan is a toreador and I never saw Corte-Real’s eyes.”

“You don’t _remember_ seeing Corte-Real’s eyes. Toreador can learn dominate. And Corte-Real can dominate people with his voice alone.”

“WHAT?”

Sebastian arranges his papers into one tidy pile. “You can call your friends. I will tell you what I know about him while we wait – but not what I think about last night. I need to reread all of this and ensure my theories make sense before I share them.”

***

From D: _Wat do U mean U lost Ur car???????????????_

From D: _Cars R big 9 theyr not easy 2 lose!!!!!_

From Me: _Don’t ask plz_

From Me: _Just find it and bring it at the shitty place south of DT_

From Me: _Will be extra thxful 2 U : )_

From Sk: _Will do_

From Sk: _For real tho 9 how did U lose a car_

From Sk: _Such a ugly car its kinda easy to spot_

From D: _I smell story_

From Me: _Maybe ill tell U 1 night_

From Me: _Not now need to process_

From D: _U alright?_

From Me: _yess_

From Sk: _Sure?_

From Me: _Ok_

From Me: _SB surprisingly good @ dealing wth shit nights_

From Me: _Who woud have thought_

From Me: _See ya at Last Round need 2 b @ our place_

From Me: _ArchB Asshole intel incoming_

From D: _URGH URGH URHG_

From D: _About SB_

From D: _Dont forget he sucks_

***

 _I doubt he does, actually_ , Nines thinks. Afterall, such things are dangerous and useless depravity, aren’t they?

“So? What did they say?”

“They will bring the car,” Nines answers, trying to unhear his own dumb thoughts and sound like he isn’t cackling in the privacy of his own head. “You were saying, about Corte-Real? I thought Dominate only worked if the creeps can look at you in the yes?”

A sigh.

Right.

Sebastian is a creep too.

“What is true for young Kindred like me may not stand for real Elders,” Sebastian starts, with his best bored _Lacroix educating youngling voice_. Which means he is probably vexed at being called a creep. “Corte-Real is old and powerful enough to do that, yes… though the commands are supposedly less powerful without eye contact. He is also renowned to be a blood sorcerer, gifted in Presence, has been known to use Dementation as he probably did on you. Quick and powerful fighter, hits hard, turns into dark smoke or some dark deity of the night – along with Dionysian pseudo-Hellenistic rituals. Can probably change appearance, highly resistant to wounds of all kinds…”

“Wait. Is there a single thing he cannot do?”

“As far as rumors go? No, and that’s a problem. No one is that good at everything. Corte-Real is too old for us but too young to have mastered so many fields. I can only tell you what I remember and right now, my memories don’t discriminate between mere rumors and… more accurate intel. I do know he can create a good show. Charms and tricks are his weapons of choice. Maybe the rest is just lies and mystifications… but what if it’s not? Maybe he is _some_ of that. Cardinal Polonia, on the other hand, that one is easy to describe. Typical Lasombra. Forceful, orthodox, will cut his enemies’ head at parleys. He is a mad dog whose biggest flaw is that he is easily angered, easily baited, and can be… somewhat, kept at bay. People like him see themselves as war leaders. Make his packs fall into deadly traps, cull his army, and he’ll be too busy managing his bickering flock to attack. _Never_ get face to face with him.”

“That’s what you said about Corte-Real.”

“I did,” Sebastian agrees. “But that was before I knew Polonia was coming. Now that I do? Perhaps… we should consider siding with the evil who will be content with us worshipping him, and not the one who will try to eat us.”

“Or we’ll settle with none of them,” Nines retorts forcefully.

More forcefully than he thinks.

Because truth to be told, when the Anarchs brought down the local Elders, Nines wasn’t there to see them achieve that feat; and now that he walks in their steps, everyone expecting him to be a new Jeremy McNeil…

He finds he doesn’t know how to be one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters! In three days!
> 
> Unfortunatly, I'll be leaving in two days for extended new year eve's, and then starting work again. So updates will be slow for a while... I hope you liked this chapter ! I'm very curious about the theories you may have, where you think the story is going! Will Nines finally agree to ally with people? With whom? What does "climb the curtains" means? Does Sebastian sucks? 
> 
> Enormous thanks to all reviewers for the last two chapters, you made my christmas awesome <3 See you next year!


	13. Interlude 1: Elders' games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before I disappear!
> 
> That one is very different, hope you will like it anyway!

**Bordeaux**  
1847

Music rises, loud and clear, between the pillars of the concert hall of the Grand Théâtre. You suppose the ballet is beautiful, but you are not here to see mortal dancers: they, like the orchestra, are background sounds and touches of color.

You are there to play chess with a friend – you remember a time when the board was not black and white, when the queen could not behave like some frenzied Brujah, and playing now is like replaying a thousand older games.

It matters not the rules.

It is about the one you play with.

The Marquis de Bordeaux takes his knight to your bishop when you are interrupted. The ghoul guarding the door apologizes, bows, begs for forgiveness; you barely notice. Messire de Morsac is not a kind master; neither are you, and you have seen him get rid of servants so many times before, you do not register anymore.

What you do register is the young man who interrupts the panicked groveling. Cainite, obviously; pale of skin, eyes and hair, dark of boots, pants, jacket, as if he walked straight from funerals. The clothes are stained with mud and the dust of a long travel.

“Votre Altesse,” the youth says, going down on one knee with an outstretched arm. In his hand: a cylinder of silver, closed by a big seal of night blue wax that he turns away from your eyes. “I offer my deepest apologies. Mon seigneur insisted this should be delivered with the most urgent haste. I shall bear any punishment that shall befit this rude behavior, if you would please accept this message.”

De Morsac takes the shelf with the neutral mask of a Ventrue presiding: neither forgiving nor condemning, letting the young cainite remain with a knee on the lush carpet of his private box as he take he look at the sigil. Only after a long time does he grants the neonate the right to stand, and in the same gesture sends him away.

“Shall I leave you to your most important missive,” you ask, toying idly with a deceased pawn with fingers gloved in black. “I can occupy myself while duty calls.”

Your gaze goes to the door that just closed.

 _There is more to see under the uniform_ , your voice whispers. _Mayhap we should talk to the boy_.

“Hunt if you want,” De Morsac answers. He saw how your dark eyes followed the cold trail of the newcomer; he knows you well enough to see the gears moving behind your silver mask. “Leave the messenger intact. He belongs to a friend of mine.”

“Of course.” You chuckle. It is probably nothing more than another small game, that, even if you always follow the cues of your Reflection. “Send for me once the matter of your urgent letter is resolved.”

***

The boy watches the show below, leaning on a column of fake marble – it is fake not to be cheap, but to be lighter than real stone, you do know that, and you wonder if the Ventrue child is fake to be _something_ , or merely because his sire has no manners.

You let him feel your presence. He almost starts, no wonder: you are Reflection and Shadow, you are nothing unless you want to be. He stares at your silver mask, feigns to ignore the dark gloves and dark coat that is slightly out of fashion; he stares, but not for long. Good little Ventrues, well educated, he knows how to stand at attention and pretend everything is fine.

“Good evening,” you greet. “I fear we have not been acquainted, youngling.”

“My apologies. I am the Damoiseau Lacroix du Clan des Rois, from the domain of Son Altesse, Messire de Vandreuil, Marquis de Lyon.”

“And I,” you answer, slight smile seeping into your voice, “will simply be Messire to you.”

“If that would please you, Messire.”

He hides he is ill at ease. He should be. You have no face, no name, and you walk toward him without care for his wariness. You can see him; he can understand nothing of you. This has nothing to do with the mask, the lack of name. He is blind, blind to everything including his own self.

You take his hand.

He lets you. He saw you with the Marquis de Morsac, heard how you style yourself; you are old, he is not: you are allowed everything, and he nothing. His nails are stained from his travels, the fingers callused from work or war or both.

You look at him – you go after that odd feeling you got when your eyes fell on him. Look, truly. All palms are different. The lines here, they overlap in your splintered mind. Your body sees a long line of life, your true soul sees it broken.

Your gaze leaves his palm, find his eyes. Dull blue that looks grey in the dark.

 _What do your see?_ Your Shadow wants to know. _Is he a treasure, of a cheap bauble that caught your eyes by mistakes?_

You feel the youngling’s nervousness through his skin. Afraid? He should be. Messire, he shall call you, knowing not who and what you are – you are the seer that peels away the layers of him like one may peel an onion; you look and you see, beyond those dirty grey irises, beyond the cheap varnish they call _Lacroix_.

 _He is nothing to me_ , you answer. Whatever fate awaits the child is beyond you, and _Lacroix_ has no past – none that is not lost with that broken line of life, drifting like some discarded ship in the mist. _He may be of some interest to you._

_Pray tell._

You let go of the cold hand. “How old are you, child?”

“Thirty-one.” Since his Embrace, of course. No one really cares when he was born as a human.

“Impressive.”

He does not understand. “Thank you, Messire.” Better not disagree with you, right?

 _How so?_ Shadow asks.

 _He’s a fake_ , you answer.

And say nothing more.

Your other half understands you perfectly well. _Oh. Indeed_.

_You can have him if you want._

_He belongs to Vandreuil. Morsac will not want to displease him for my sake._

_A pity._

_Indeed._

“You will have to remain in Bordeaux tonight. Enjoy the spectacle, child.” Even if he understands nothing of it. Will not for a very long time – a time he does not have.

_He is not dead yet, dear._

_He will be soon._

_An interesting bet._

“Thank you, Messire.”

He should. Thank you.

Though he will never understand why.

***

“The boy is Vandreuil’s, isn’t he?” You ask, sounding like you do not care.

Indeed, you do not.

Vandreuil is nothing to you.

“His name is Lacroix,” De Morsac answers. “De Vandreuil’s Childer are called De Vandreuil.”

“And he is thirty-one.”

“He is.”

“Is De Vandreuil waiting for him to die of old age?”

“What do you want?” The Ventrue’s queen is almost a threat to your king. Almost. Who cares? This game is old, and your Reflection found you a new game.

“I threw a coin.”

“And?”

“Tail.”

“So?”

“I want you to buy him.”

“Who?” De Morsac feigns to study the board. “Lacroix? Why do you want him?”

“He is interesting.” You advance your bishop. Better watch this queen.

“Low Embraces are never interesting.”

“Usually not.” You tear your stare of the board; look up, and smile, though of course your mask hides that. De Morsac knows you. He will know what hides behind. “But since Damoiseau Lacroix is actually nothing but a construct, and has reached the old age of thirty-one without crumbling into an insane mess, he may be more exciting that the usual half-caitiffs your clan bake in times of war.”

De Morsac’s jaw twitches. _Touché_. “The things you know just by watching younglings, Traiano…”

“Tss.” No names. That is the rule. “Why did de Vandreuil make him, anyway? He was in exile at the time, surely he was too busy reclaiming his city to play with clay – unless de Vandreuil has finally reached the final stage of incestuous decrepitude and all he could Embrace was some random peasant boy he tries to pass as a somewhat noble man?”

“Watch your words.”

“You know this is true. Is that not the reason why _your_ Childer’s name aren’t De Morsac? Please, I would love to have him there, and how costly would that transaction be to you? Thirty-one years? My, I am sure De Vandreuil would be thrilled to be rid of him. No Ventrue keep their Low Embraces around them for so long.”

“What makes you believe I want to pay anything for him? You said so yourself, with this amount of Dominate, the card castle will crumble soon enough. And then? I will be the one who will have to put an end to his misery.”

“I will give you Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port.”

“I want Lourdes.”

“Didn’t Lourdes belong to the Countess of Toulouse?”

“She lost it.” De Morsac moves his knight; a single look at the board, and you know you will probably lose this game.

No matter, as long as you get what you want in the real, secret contests you two have been playing ever since De Morsac became Marquis, and you Archbishop.

The Ventrue continues: “Were I to win Lourdes, it would be mine, not hers.”

“Fine. Lourdes, and you buy young Lacroix from De Vandreuil. Should he start to show symptoms of madness, I will take care of the matter.”

“Agreed.” This is nothing to Morsac anyway, and you and your Reflection know very well the cost shall be light.

As for you… you do not know yet what role the poor boy is supposed to play. Perhaps he has none, and the feeling tickling at the back of your skull is nothing.

It rarely is, and Fortuna always ensure your coins fall on the right side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Super curious about what your thoughts are ^_^ I've tried to be cryptic, but I hope I wasn't *too* cryptic! Any theory about who the people involved are?


	14. Book 1, Ch12: You don't sound like yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I wanted to do some plot but Nines was like "meh it's holidays thx".
> 
> Happy new year to all of you \o/

"Evening, Nines," Damsel purrs, keys dancing from her fingers. "I found that lost lady a street away from the Confession."

"Great."

He tries to grab the keys, but of course the red haired Brujah snatches it away with a playful smile. "What was the old girl doing there? Her owner got lost in prayers?"

"Not in the mood for jokes."

"Okay." She lets the keys fall into Nines' open palm, and then digs her fists again her hips with her usual _let's talk business_ glare. "For real Nines, your texts had me worried! Why didn’t you come and find us?”

"I'm with you now." No point in telling her being with Sebastian worked just fine. She may either take that as a sign she should warm up to him, or lean toward jealous protectiveness and show her fangs. "We're dropping Sebastian to the other place and I'm all yours."

"Ah yes, I had almost forgotten you had to deal with His Royal Deadweightness."

"Good evening," Sebastian calls from the entrance of the building, pretending he hasn't heard – but they all know he did, and being unexpectedly courteous seems to be his own brand of passive-aggressive. "Thank you for your help."

"It's talking now? Charming."

"Damsel," Nines snaps. "We're all on the same side here. The haven ain't far, let's make it there without a fight."

They do, cracking music filling the car and Damsel moaning about petty things, obviously unwilling to speak of anything of import while Sebastian, on the back seat, pretends the view outside is enthralling enough to ignore the one-sided conversation.

The new haven is Nines' most comfortable, though not his most secure because of the fire escape stairs climbing the wall. Nice couch, a bath tube that's actually white, a big bed that was meant for two – and enough room for Nines to put a mattress on the ground in order to avoid the embarrassment of sharing it with Sebastian.

"You'll be alright?" The Brujah asks, watching Sebastian let the bags down and take in the sight of his new prison. "Want me to stay?"

"I always want you to stay," the Ventrue admits quietly. "But you have a war to wage. I'll just... write down what I mean to do. Follow the bullet points, review your interview. Watch TV if I can’t or just… wait."

"You sure? I've let you deal with everything – if I'd known how taxing..." He’d have put a stop to it, because Nines is the stronger one in this and should be carrying their weight – but he knows that would have been a nice excuse to burry the whole night in the ground. Probably not the healthiest path, but definitely the easiest. Being Nines Rodriguez tonight feels like being an open wound recently drained of poison.

" _Nines_ ,” Sebastian interrupts him, a mix of annoyed Lacroix and the softer side that seems to feels some affection. “Please. I'm alright. Just a little… tired. You can go.”

“Sure.” What can he say? The Ventrue wants to be taken seriously. That’s a feeling Nines can get. And Damsel is waiting by the car, most probably getting more and more excited with every minute Nines spends up there with her nemesis.

 _His_ nemesis.

“Call me if…”

“ _Go_ ,” Sebastian orders; a year ago, Nines would have found that annoying, but now?

A year ago, Lacroix wouldn’t have smiled fondly, and that smile wouldn’t have contained a much longer sentence than his word: _go, and be back_.

***

From JCall: _Hey_

From JCall: _How’s the night treating you?_

From JCall: _Would love some night out with you again_

From me: _Not 2night_

From me: _I need to think about stuffs_

From JCall: _You alright?_

From JCall: _You know it’s all fun time right_

From JCall: _I’m not going to ask you to marry me_ 😉

From JCall: _May definitely ask to F you again though_

From JCall: _Anyone ever told you how hot you are_

From me: _War stuffs_

From me: _We need some big war meeting_

From me: _To discuss things_

From JCall: _Want help with that?_

From JCall: _You call the A, I call the C?_

From me: _Maybe_

From me: _I think I drank bad b yesterday_

From me: _Feeling really weird sry_

From JCall: _Yeah you acted a bit high_

From JCall: _You ddin’t do that on purpose?_

From JCall: _Thought you wanted some fun_

From me: _No_

From me: _I mean I didnt drink on purpose_

From me: _IDK wht I think about this_

From me: _need to think_

From me: _Sry_

From me: _Good time with you_

From me: _But not sure me should do it again?_

From JCall: _You tell me_

From JCall: _Want to meet somewhere to talk about it?_

From JCall: _Work or not work. F or not F I don’t mind_

From JCall: _Be well ok?_

From me: _Ok_

From me: _Will call you back later_

From me: _For work_

From JCall: _Ok have a nice night_ 😊

***

“What took you so long?” Damsel groans as Nines gets into the car, switching his phone off with a frown. “The princess needed help unpacking?”

“No.” _I was busy texting my High Justice one-night stand_. “Slow down on the nicknames.”

“Why are you always defending him? After everything he did?”

“He doesn’t remember doing them.” And Sebastian feels like a wholly different person – perhaps because Prince Lacroix was never a person to start with. He was a title, a puppet in an annoying suit, the incarnation of a system. Now? Now he’s nothing of that anymore. “He’s been helping me. Well, trying to, but I’m not very good at being helped, I think, we need to move on with the war, I think we should find a way to discuss with everyone, Cam included but what if things turn out like they did in San Diego? Fuck, how do we even sell that to the other? Do you know why Jeanette Voerman would be talking to the Cammies about us, she’s been repeating everything to Callaghan, that’s how he –“

“Wow wow wow, slow down for a moment?”

“I don’t make sense?”

“You’re kinda jumping from one thing to another like a rabbit on meth, no offense.”

“Fuck.” It’s just he is not sure where he should start. Confront Jeanette Voerman? Seek Jonas Williams to set things straight?

What did Corte-Real say? Use the blasted sarcophagus as bait? Strauss had it – does he still? Why is Nines even considering following the clues of the old Sabbat bastard?

He’s… “I’m… I’m sorry, Damsel, I think I have… I think I have no idea what I’m doing. Or what I _should_ be doing. Everyone expects me to but I’m just all over the place – you think I’m weird with Sebastian? Fuck, I think Sebastian’s slowly becoming the most _normal_ piece of everything that’s happening.”

Way more normal than what happened last night.

And damn – Nines felt good, leaving the appartement, and now? Now he feels like he would be short of breath if he still had need of breathing. The result of the texts? Of remembering exactly how Callaghan’s fangs felt when he Kissed him? Of being both disgusted for having thrown himself at the _servire_ and wanting to feel his arms around him again?

His hands are clutching the steering wheel, but Nines hasn’t started the car. Where should he drive? There’s one thousand things to do, and _none_ sounds like it will solve anything.

Corte-Real is right.

It was so much easier when Lacroix was his enemy.

“Let’s look at it with another POV,” Damsel finally says, interrupting Nines’ trail of disordinate thoughts. “Maybe tonight’s priority is you, okay? You don’t sound right, Nines. What _happened_?”

“I…” Don’t want to speak about it. “I was…” Meeting Callaghan.

And way more than that.

“I went to Club Confession to meet with a contact, and Corte-Real ambushed me there.”

“WHAT?” Damsel jumps so hard into her seat Nines would almost expect it to break – but no, the cars only bears the aggression with a painful creak. “Why didn’t you call??? We could have –“

“Done nothing,” Nines growls. “That’s the thing, Dam’, I could do nothing – didn’t even want to. Could have asked me to go on my knees, asked me to slaughter everyone in there, I’d have _obeyed_. I – I know how everyone sees me, but I’m not Jeremy McNeil, I mean he knew what to do when that happened and I just – I don’t. I’m not the leader everyone seems to believe I am.”

“You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Yeah.” Or perhaps Nines finally sounds like the person he actually was all along: a man pretending to be more than an eternal loser. “I know.”

“You know what you need? A _break_. Name one thing on that one thousand items list you have. I do that and you go chill with Skelter tonight.”

“I don’t know.”

“Hell Nines, no one is expecting you to be flawless except assholes like Jonas! And that guy, he would even hate you for having no flaws! Come on, want me to go punch that Jeanette bitch? Who the hell she thinks she is, telling crap to the capes? I’m going to make her _eat_ those dumb pigtails!”

“Would appreciate knowing _why_ she did it,” Nines admits. “If possible without any broken jaws. Yet.”

“Sure. So that’s a deal? I behave with miss crazy and you take a night off while we still can.”

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t feel like driving away. Damn it, he doesn’t feel like turning the keys to get the car going.

“Anything fun you want to do?”

Yeah.

Actually, there is.

Not that Damsel will be happy to hear that. “Actually, I think I’d just like to stay home.” Because Nines isn’t sure he wants to speak about what happened again, but he’s quite certain he’d rather discuss this without having to start again from scratches. Sebastian already knows. Sebastian won’t judge.

_Because he lost hope already._

_I always want you to stay,_ the Ventrue said, and he sounded like he meant it – and perhaps that’s just what Nines needs right now. Nothing but to bask in… what? The affection of his amnesic prisoner, who won’t run because he convinced him there was nothing but him or death?

 _I am so messed up_ , Nines thinks with an inner chuckle that soon goes past his lips, and has Damsel throw him a worried look. “I’m sorry,” Nines laughs. “I think I’m mad, Dam’. I just want to stay here. Have a nice night laying on the couch with Sebastian. Fuck, if I’d been told that a year ago!”

“Yeah,” she doesn’t look pleased, but she’s not _screaming_. “Do that. If that’s what you really want, Nines, that’s your call.”

***

From me: _Hey genius_

From me: _Why dyou think Jeannette V told you shit about me?_

From me: _Been thinking cant make sense_

From JCall: _You’re cute Nines_

From JCall: _She wants to help her sister become prince of LA_

From JCall: _You’re in the way_

From me: _WTF_

From JCall: _That’s so stupid  
_

From JCall: _Who would want to become the new Lacroix of this city now_

From me: _WTF_

From me: _THAT BITCH!!!!!!_

From me: _Dont fuck wth her again_

From me: _For real im_

From JCall: _Sure_

From JCall: _Keeping my kisses only for you darling_ 😉

From me: _Do that_

From me: _thx_

***

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Let’s not throw the phone against the wall.

Prince of LA? Therese Voerman?

He should have seen that coming.

Breathe in.

Open the door.

Breathe out.

“Hey.”

“You’re already back?”

“Yeah. Didn’t feel like… I just wanted to spend the night with you. If that’s alright.”

“Sure,” Sebastian answers, smile honey sweet. “I was reviewing yesterday’s findings. Anything you want to do?”

 _Make Jeanette eat her dumb pigtails_.

 _Call Callaghan and tell him to fuck me until I forget everything_.

“Nah. Just be with you.” Damnit. “Urgh. I’m sorry, that sounds weird after… yesterday.”

Sebastian shrugs. “It’s alright. First times being messed up by people like that is always…” His gaze loses focus for a moment, and then: “Well. You know. I was rereading all the notes I took yesterday about my past. You want to have a look with me? I think I’ve been looking at the same fountain three times already without noticing, so feel free to keep me on track.”

“Sure. Do we have to do that like super serious people by the table or can we use the couch?”

That’s not a real question, since Nines is already half sprawled on said couch – Sebastian raises an eyebrow, looks like he wants to argue for a second and then relents with a sigh and come over with one enormous books called “Cities of France”. Old, slightly battered, black and white pics only, probably decades old, and now filled with loose sheets darkened by Sebastian’s handwriting.

The Ventrue sits close, close enough for Nines to wrap an arm around his shoulders – not that he does, but the thought is there. That he could try, if he wasn’t afraid of Sebastian’s reaction, and it would probably feel nice to have him close.

“Lyon?” Nines asks, clearing his throat.

Sebastian doesn’t answer, merely turns the pages straight to Bordeaux. “Let’s leave Lyon for another time and start with Bordeaux – I think, you know, that I did have a much better time here, and I’d rather dwell on the few happy memories I managed to scavenge…”

“Sure.”

One loose strand of hair slips from behind Sebastian’s ear, brushing at his jaw, like a curtain of pale gold behind which his full lips form words of better times.

And Nines doesn’t know if it was there all along or if Corte-Real planted that seed of need inside him – because he does not act on it, will not act on it, but all he thinks about is how it would feel like to kiss that mouth.


	15. Book 1, Ch13: Visiting the old Baron

Nines awakes to the sound of rain; laying on his back, for a moment he gifts himself the luxury of doing nothing but listen to the wind hissing against the walls and water hitting the windows of the main room. Then he rolls on his side, takes in the empty mattress Sebastian slept on tonight and the lights past the door of the bedchamber.

He doesn’t know why, exactly, it always surprises him that Sebastian always wakes before he does.

“Evening,” Nines mumbles, heading straight to the fridge. Mortals have their coffee, he has his blood bags – except this morning, his look slightly…

He cuts it open. Damn, the smell…

A tentative sip.

“ _Fuck_.”

“What?”

“You tried the blood this morning?”

Sebastian looks up from his papers (how can the guy be working or whatever so early?), his look preceding his words in voicing a clear “no”. “What’s the problem?”

“Looks like its last trip out of the fridge was one too many.” Nines cuts open a second bag, and it smells as bad as the first. “Unless you’re into rotten stuff, it’s all going down the sink.”

“Ah.”

“Indeed. Four nights worth of blood! I mean, I can hunt, but you? You feel like it?”

“I… am not really looking forward to trying,” Sebastian admits. “However, we will have to sooner or later. Finding the right blood bags must have been a real chore to you, and you have better use of your time, don’t you think?”

 _No, because you can actually drink whatever I give you,_ Nines keeps to himself. Maybe now would be the right time to talk about that – take one more thing off Nines’ mind. Maybe Ventrues can actually drink whatever they want when they feel bad enough?

Or maybe Nines can ask someone who knows, first hand, how Ventrues work.

“Yeah,” Nines answers, vaguely. “Can hunting wait until tomorrow? It’s time I pay a visit to someone. Some older folk who was there during the revolt. Could be of real help for the war if I manage to get him to help.”

And if not, well – at least Nines will have tried.

***

It’s been a very long time since Nines paid a visit to the Anarchs of Beverly Hills. As he drives between the posh villas, he remembers a time when he came here not as a reluctant leader seeking guidance. He had been content to accommodate the demands of bigger names, then; had been sent there by big shot Salvador Garcia to carry a message. Back when Jeremy McNeil was still the Baron of L.A in all but name, back when everything was Anarchs quarrelling amongst themselves.

Nines remembers that, back then, he had thought Louis Fortier, former Ventrue primogen of Camarilla L.A, was not his kind of Anarchs.

The villa is a fortress. High steel gate, armed ghouls guarding it, and then another steel gate hidden behind fancy trees with another set of ghouls with heavy assault rifles.

Nines knows what he’ll find after that.

Luxury – of a kind Nines Rodriguez ever found unnerving. McNeil always argued that being an Anarch was all about fellow Kindreds, nothing to do with how vampires should interact with humans. But all that marble, the ghoul dressed in a one-thousand-dollar suit asking at the door if he wishes to leave his coat, the ridiculously expensive paintings on the wall, all of it offends what remains of the mortal Nines used to be.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He is there because he needs Fortier’s advices. No matter that he dislikes him personally, or that Louis Fortier is _older_ than Sebastian himself; the Baron never betrayed the Anarchs after he turned against his Prince and transformed his seat of Primogen into the one he still occupies tonight.

“M. Fortier will receive you in a short while,” the overdressed ghoul intones pompously. “It is unfortunate you could not call ahead of time, or he would, of course, have insured you were admitted immediately in his presence, M. Rodriguez…”

“Sure.” Or maybe, maybe Louis Fortier is doing nothing but shagging one of the beautiful young women he keeps around himself at all time, and is making the Brujah wait just to feel important. “You have any place with a TV set where I can wait?”

Of course they do.

And it’s a _small_ lounge twice the size of Nines’ haven.

But the TV is working, and Nines can switch it on to local news. No surprise: it’s all about San Diego and the surge of violence washing over the city. _Gangs war erupts!_ _A coastguard boat crew entirely slaughtered after a fight with a ship from Mexico! Multiple arsons in the southernmost neighborhoods of the city! City police overwhelmed by the explosion of crime! California’s governor is considering calling the National Guard to back the local police!_

“M. Rodriguez? M. Fortier is ready to receive you.”

Up the grand stairs, down the hallways covered with expensive carpets and lined with classical statues – it’s all almost as gaudy as Lacroix’s office used to be, though a bit more tasteful than Isaac Abram’s.

Better not be annoyed.

Or be annoyed, but only once the conversation is done and it won’t matter anymore; quiet the Beast for now.

Thanksfully, Louis Fortier’s office is more business than lavish, the luxury being toned down to dark wood and vintage coper lamps – and the Ventrue’s handshake is firm enough to remind the Brujah this guy survived many more wars than Nines did.

“M. Rodriguez,” the man starts, gesturing for Nines to sit in a big leather armchair that seems straight out of a _noir_ movie. “I was not expecting you. It seems you made quite a name for yourself since we last met.”

“Bigger names fell, you mean. That leaves me.” No need to pretend. Fortier knew McNeil, knew Garcia, knew all the big shots who made the Revolt a thing. Compared to them, Nines is nothing but a newbie that may or may not be a shooting start, quick to rise and quick to be forgotten. “And that leaves you. Out of the ones who were there at the start.”

“Indeed,” the Ventrue answers with caution, sitting behind his massive desk. Then he asks, deep voice flowing with the self-confidence of one who has been dealing with petitioners with paternalistic benevolence for two centuries: “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

“Guidance.” Even if it leaves a bitter taste upon Nines’ tongue to admit to it. “I’m not going to insult you and ask if you need an update on the current situation.”

“What part? The Camarilla trying to clean their own ranks and failing because of you? The Sabbat looming at our door? Indeed, M. Rodriguez, I do not often set foot outside my domain, but I am not deaf.”

“We withstood a war with the Sabbat already. You were one of our leaders back then.”

“The sixties are not now,” Fortier cuts. “We won, yes. By virtue of sheer number and mastery of our domains and because, if you look at it, you will remember a few of us weren’t younglings. I mean no offense to you, but in some situations, age _does_ make a difference.”

Nines doesn’t comment on that – he’s still feeling the sting of that truth. “You don’t sound very optimistic.”

“That fight is not lost. Yet.”

“Will you stand with us?”

“I have always stood with the Free States.” The man reclines in his chair, hands joined in a small pyramid of calloused fingers in front of his chest; a big, golden signet ring shines in the low light. “This barony has been mine for decades. I am not planning on letting it fall into the blood-soaked hands of some shovel-head pack. West Los Angeles will fight alongside Hollywood, Santa Monica, South Los Angeles and the Camarilla – and your own barony, should you decide to join our alliance.”

“I am no Baron,” Nines answers, instead of asking: _what alliance?_

What has everyone been doing behind his back?

“Downtown will fight with you,” he adds, because of course they will, and they don’t need a self-proclaimed leader to join the club, thank you very much. “I did not know the alliance with the Camarilla had already been decided.”

“Was the alliance even to be discussed?” Fortier asks haughtily. “As I said, those nights are not the sixties anymore. Just look at Lacroix. He wouldn’t have set a foot in Los Angeles, back then. Now… He managed to stay for years before you managed to get him out of your domain… and that wasn’t even _you_. The _Camarilla_ ousted him.”

“Are you implying this is _our fault_ the Camarilla returned in L.A?”

“I am not implying anything, M. Rodriguez. You came seeking guidance, well, here it is: Downtown is a _mess_ and that _mess_ allowed Lacroix to settle. Did you see him lording over West Los Angeles? Over Hollywood? Where strong Barons rule, he remained utterly powerless. But not in Downtown, because your area is one of Los Angeles’ weakest point. No Baron, no competent Prince; I thank god the Tremeres have a Chantry here, as this may be our best chance not to lose Downtown to the first assault of the Sabbat. We do not need them to conquer a hub right in the middle of the city.”

Were Nines still human, his fingers would have turned white from the pressure of clawing into the armchair to keep his calm. How dare he! How dare that old fool blame them! Blame _him_! “Anarchs do not need to be ruled,” he answers, voice shaking with rage. “Downtown doesn’t have a Baron because Downtown doesn’t need one.”

Fortier remains silent.

As if silence, and letting Nines stew is enough of an answer.

Then: “Is that all you wanted to know, M. Rodriguez?”

_Pompous bastard._

“In fact, no.” _Go fuck yourself_. “I had inquiries. About you clan.”

The Ventrue tilts his head slightly. “Quite unexpected. Do go on.”

“Your feeding habits. How does it work?”

“How does… well. That is a surprising question. Or not so much. Would you happen to have troubles with your current… guest?”

“Does _everyone_ know about that?”

“What are Kindred supposed to talk about, these nights? Dashing young Rodriguez, stealing away his former bitter foe? Please, rumors were expected. He is still alive, then?”

“That is…” None of his business, except it is. “Yes. He is. I need to know if Ventrues can feed outside their preferences and how it works.”

“They cannot.”

“Are you certain?”

Fortier mouths curves in an amused smile. “I am. There are some exceptions. Ventrues can always feed on vampiric vitae, and a frenzying Ventrue will ignore his preferences, but I doubt that can help in your situation – unless you are willing to bloodbond Lacroix to yourself.”

“How do you know what blood works for you?” Sebastian seems to believe it’s the right one, and that Nines is picking exactly what he needs. Maybe it’s all in the head.

“All Ventrues have… how to describe that… some sort of sixth sense. We just know.”

“So you wouldn’t drink blood that you don’t favor by accident?”

“No.”

“Even from a blood bag?”

“No. Blood bags can be tricky, but we will know the moment the offending blood touch our tongue that it is not the right one.”

_That can’t be true. Sebastian has been drinking everything I gave him and there’s no way all of it was of the right sort!_

“Surprised?”

No point in denying it – the truth must have showed on his face. “Your explanations are conflicting with some of my observations.”

“What do you mean? Were you, in fact, able to feed Lacroix blood that shouldn’t fit? What was his preference again?”

Silence.

Because Nines doesn’t know what it is.

“I’m not telling you,” he tries nervously.

“Oh,” the Ventrue smiles anyway. “Oh, this is so amusing.”

“What exactly?”

“Oh, not you,” Fortier answers, looking like he hopes to not offend his already very annoyed guest. “ _Lacroix_. I cannot believe it. He’s a former High Justice archon, did you know that? I met him twice, once in the thirties when he came to the city on orders of High Justice, and when he came back to claim domain. He tried to appeal to clan ties. I wonder if his superior knew what the little upstart is hiding.”

“Pray tell,” Nines snaps, “we wouldn’t want you to feel lonely with your own jokes.”

A sigh. “Well, M. Rodriguez, if your guest can drink everything you have been giving him, that can mean only one thing…”

Fortier’s smile widens, showing too many fangs.

“… and that is, that Sebastian Lacroix is, in fact, not a Ventrue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louis Fortier, Jeremy McNeil and Salvador Garcia are all NPCs from the book Los Angeles by Night!


	16. Book 1, Ch14: You're being irrational

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some self harm at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> Aside from that, it's not a really nice night in L.A, which is not very surprising considering Brujahs aren't the best to handle their anger.

It’s a small miracle that Nines doesn’t get pulled by cops, that his car doesn’t somehow explode from the speed and bad driving, or that no pedestrian are harmed on his way home. With snarling lips and clenched fingers he makes his way down Beverly Hills to the sad streets of Downtown – ugly and dirty even after the downpour of the early evening.

There were no homeless people to be seen in Fortier’s domain. That barony shone bright, luxury and clean houses hiding depravation.

Yeah, Downtown is a mess. It’s an ugly mess but it’s one where Nines wants to believe everyone can rule his own self, be his own man, bend to no one – and still, it stings, that accusation that they are the weak point of this sick city.

Fortier is wrong. Fortier must be wrong. The man is no real Anarch anyway. Just a Ventrue primogen who switched sides when the Free States were born to keep his own lands. Old, depraved, snobbish fool.

The car comes to an abrupt stop at a crossroad. The light’s green, but Nines stays put. Drive left to go back to the haven and ask Sebastian what the fuck is going on with him; turn right for the Last Round or the Hanged Man to rage about the alliance those bastards struck without them.

_One night. I gave myself one night._

Does Callaghan know about this?

Did Callaghan make this behind his back?

_Why do I even care? He made it clear fucking has no meaning for him so why the expectations?_

Throwing his head back, the Brujah lets out an explosive sigh as the light goes red.

There’s one thing Fortier summed up right: it’s all a mess. Sebastian, Callaghan, Corte-Real, the war, _everything_ and maybe the best that can happen to Nines now is for that dreadful war to start. In the midst of gunfire and claws his blood will sing; he’ll be himself once again, out of the spider web of petty politics.

The light switches to green.

***

It’s madness to meet at the Last Round and Nines clenches his teeth, having to enter his own home by the backdoor like a thief.

The Last Round smells new. It was easier to give it a new paint job than to clean the Sabbat slurs left by Corte-Real’s opening move; perhaps they should have covered it all with posters instead, made it easier to pretend nothing happened and their den hasn’t been desecrated.

That smell is everywhere, and it makes Nines’ Beast growl, like a rotten cherry atop the poisonous cake this night has been.

“He said WHAT?” Damsel yells. She stands, throwing down her chair as she does. “How dares he calls us weak? Us? Isn’t that guy holding his Barony by ghoul power? Fuck him! He’s a cape at heart! Coward! What was he doing when Lacroix came in town, uh? Nothing!”

“We’ve got more pressing matters to attend,” Skelter interrupts her, deep voice way less annoyed than Nines feels – and they can almost read on his face the thought _brujah_ , sounding like a deep sigh _._ “The alliance. If we’re not in, then we’re bound to fight alone or follow the cues of those who are in. It’s too late to be choosers or we’ll end up as canon fodder.”

“They will want someone to talk to.” And Nines feels like it’s going to be _him_ , of course it will be. “That’s not who we are. We have no chief.”

“It’s temporary. Sucks to say so, but in a fight we need to have people in charge. Accountable peoples who care and you’re that.”

Sure.

Sure Nines cares.

Is it enough? “I have no idea how to do this, Skelter. Honest. I’ve never led a _war_. I can bear being responsible for my own skin, pay for my own mistakes, I don’t want to have people supposedly under my command dying because I’m running blind.”

The Gangrel nods. “Yeah. Only assholes want that. But just think. Can you name someone, aside from you, all the Anarchs of Downtown will rally after?”

“They are wrong.”

“Are they? People aren’t idiots, they trust you for a reason.”

“Because I speak up.” Usually. “I look like I can stand my ground but I can’t. When it matters I can’t.”

“You downed a werewolf man, what _proof_ do you need?”

Nines shares a glance with Damsel. She knows. She knows exactly why he doubts. Because he’s been hit with the same powerlessness he felt right after his Embrace, when he was the youngest Brujah in town, the result of a party gone wrong in a local pub where poor workers went to drink and dance late before their single day off. When he was absolutely no one, no one’s Childe, not ashes merely because the two idiots who couldn’t remember which of them made him had been sent to the sun already and the local Prince gracefully decided Armando Rodriguez would be a walking warning sign.

He was supposed to be past this. He left all that behind, the weakness, when he jumped in a train rolling away from that forsaken city, following the siren’s calls of the Anarchs Free States.

There were still stars in the sky of L.A, back then, and Nines either remembers or imagines that he watched them, and decided he would never run again.

“No one calls me Baron,” he warns.

And hopes this is not the start of the fall.

***

From me: _Forgot ttell me abt everyone mking 1 allianswithout me?_

From JCall: _Calm down_

From JCall: _I can hear you angry typing_

From JCall _: What did you think?_

From JCall: _YOU are the one who refused everything_

From me: _R U trying to say itsmy fault???????_

From JCall: _I don’t get it, do you want to stand with us or not?_

From JCall: _No one made you quit Abrams’ meeting_

From me: _Fuck off_

From JCall: _Call me back when you’re done being irrational_

***

He slams open the door of the haven.

Irrational!

How dares he! Who is the dumbass hoping to recruit an ex-Sabbat Archbishop and that all will be fine? Who comes to meetings with no weapons? Who was perfectly sober that night, when they crossed a line they shouldn’t have?

“No greetings tonight?” Nines growls, pacing, never standing still – because if he does, something is going to give.

He hates it all. That he has agreed to be the Anarchs’ representative, that he has to wait for Skelter and Damsel to ask the others, that the others may disagree or worse – that they may agree. It’s so damn annoying, all of it, it’s eating him out from the inside – everything, including Sebastian’s silence and careful eyes.

“Should I assume this is one of those situations when you are angry and I am not to blame,” the Ventrue asks, slowly, voice quite and sweet and submissive and it’s utter _bullshit_.

Because Nines knows Lacroix’s in there. He saw him be in charge, he can act like some grown up snotty Ventrue.

 _Ventrue_.

What a joke.

“You can quit the act,” Nines snaps. “Yes, you’re to blame. And to think I was worried about you when you could just have told me I didn’t need to!”

Lacroix blinks. “Have I done something wrong?”

Pacing, pacing like a tiger trapped in too small a cage (and this flat is too small, it’s too small for the anger that threatens to overflow), Nines almost shouts: “ _Your fucking feeding habits!_ Here I was, worried that at some point they would get back to bite us but they won’t, won’t they? Because the mighty prince of L.A was a fucking caitiff. All. Along! And to think you looked down on us!”

“What did you say?” Lacroix asks, voice empty and cold.

“I said,” Nines repeats, “that I would have appreciated knowing what you were, would have saved me troubles.”

“Told you what? _I am not a caitiff!_ ”

“Then explain how you can drink any blood and not care!”

“I cannot!” He exclaims. “And you know that perfectly well since you have been obtaining –“

“I have no idea what blood you need,” Nines snaps. “Not the slightest. You’ve been drinking the same as me: random blood bags.”

“You’re lying. You’re _lying_ because someone you cannot bully bothered you and you know I cannot retaliate!”

“That’s the truth. And if it isn’t then prove it! Let’s go to the blood bank and see if you can pick up what you need with your special Ventrue sixth sense!”

Silence.

Filled only by a sudden, ragged, panicked breath. “You have been poisoning me?” Sebastian asks. “You have been _poisoning_ me for how many nights?”

“You should have felt it wasn’t the right one!”

“I’m – I don’t have that sixth sense like other Ventrues do, but that doesn’t mean I’m – oh God please no, please tell me you are lying and you gave me what I need _please_ don’t let this be true – it’s true? It’s true, isn’t it? **You poisoned me?** ”

The Dominate command is so weak, it feels like clumsy fingers prodding over Nines’ mind, unable to grab – and with them go eyes widened in panic, unfocused with shock, and the voice, shrill and broken, repeating over and over poison, poison, poison, until Sebastian stands and goes straight to the kitchen.

It takes Nines an instant too long to understand what the other man is aiming for; it takes the light of the kitchen flashing on the blade of the knife, and the repetition changing from _poison_ to _must take it out._

And it takes yet another moment to see through the red haze of the Beast and _oh shit no_.

It’s not hard to take the knife off Sebastian’s hands. It’s not hard to trap him in Nines’ arms to keep him away from the weapon.

It’s harder to listen to him sobbing that he must _take it out please I cannot I cannot have this inside me please please take it out_ and have no way to help, no way of ignoring that Nines should have dealt with this better somehow.

No way except wait, sitting on the blood-stained kitchen floor, and hope the crisis will end by itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Brujah curse is a real meanie sometimes, isn't it?
> 
> Poor Sebastian needs lots of hugs, feel free to send some in the comments! He would even appreciate smileys and inarticulate supportive sounds!


	17. Book 1, Ch15: You poisoned me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We left poor Sebastian in a bad state! Will he get better?
> 
> Big thanks to all of those who left reviews so far <3

The crisis does and doesn’t end by itself – it slowly becomes quieter, and before the night ends, Sebastian has gone nearly catatonic.

It is a new form of powerlessness, to feel him slip little by little into this: the weeping subsides, the struggle to cut and scratches weakens, and eventually the Ventrue’s body goes lax in Nines’ arms, giving up the fight entirely.

And when the new sunset leaves his charge as weak as last sunrise, Nines concludes this is a problem he will have to solve, and solve fast.

He hears Sebastian awaken with a painful groan, long after he should have; he doesn’t get up but merely curls under the covers, burying his head into the pillow to escape the cold light flooding from the living room.

“Not feeling any better?” Nines asks, needlessly, and it annoys him that he cannot do more than that – but he needs to open the conversation somehow. “Tell me what you need, I’ll find it.”

For a long while silence answers him. Long enough for Nines to gather the courage to sit on the bed and reach out to squeeze Sebastian’s shoulder. “Hey. I know I’ve been an ass. Please help me fix this.”

Another long silence.

“You pretending you’re dead or something?”

He tries to sound like he’s joking.

It is not very convincing.

“You promised,” Sebastian mumbles.

“What?”

“You promised. In the contract. You promised you wouldn’t treat me like this.” The Ventrue rolls in his sheets, and it’s unclear if he does so to give Nines an accusatory glare or to escape his touch. “I did everything right. I gave you no reason to hurt me. Yet you did. _Again_.”

“I’m _trying_ –“

“You _poisoned_ me.” The words spill from lips purple with undeath, and Sebastian’s skin is pallid and cold enough to leave no doubt he isn’t human. “You knew I cannot drink outside my preference and you… Why? Because it was _easier_? Because it was too difficult to ask what I need?”

“I’m trying, okay? I’m doing my best with this whole fucked up situation! Yeah, it was easier, but what do you think? That you’re the only problem I have? No one will help me with you, so yeah! Forgive me for choosing what looked like the easy road for _both of us_!”

Those are not good reasons, Nines knows.

But it’s true. He’s doing his best and it stings that his best isn’t enough.

“You have my _gratitude_.” Though Sebastian sounds like he feels everything but that, and he spits the words more than he forms them, his pale eyes full of scorn. “Please tell me now, tell me everybody wants me dead and I have nowhere to go but you. Please ask me to forgive you because I have no choice. Please ask me to swallow your words because if I refuse, you will be angry and mistreat me again even though you promised to _stop_.”

“I am not angry with you,” Nines answers, trying not to sound angry – because Sebastian is right, the fault is not his, and Nines understands quite well what betrayal feels like.

And because this – this is everything Nines refuses to accept. That he cannot step out of the role of the abuser for more than a few nights. He promised, and slipped so easily – all it took was Fortier pushing him too far, Callaghan’s betrayal, the _politics_ … and here they are, back at the beginning, whatever trust Nines managed to gather shattered into pieces. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying you should forgive me, Sebastian. But you have to let me help you.”

Because he looks like the lightest breeze would break his skin like a hammer shattering porcelain.

“Why?” The Ventrue asks. “Why are you doing this? You don’t care about me. Don’t pretend. I know how my life works. No one _ever_ cared about me unless I could be of use. What do you want to use me for?”

“Nothing!”

Sebastian falls back on the pillow, cackling, voice dry and hoarse. “Liar. You’re lying to yourself. You wanted me _dead_. Why would you want to help a man you wanted to murder unless you want something? You’re just like everyone else. Are you worried I will be a bad investment? You don’t have to pretend I am anything more than that. Don’t worry. I survived worst. But don’t pretend you _care_. Don’t need that, none of us do, I’m used to it, I’ll be useful and then I’ll just go away. You will want me to go away. Eventually, they all do.”

“Stop.”

“Why? Why, Rodriguez, don’t want to hear the truth? Think I cannot hear it?”

“That’s not the truth,” Nines answers. Trying not to be annoyed again, and trying not to think that this bitter person with sunken eyes is _Sebastian_ – the one who can be sweet, the one he was starting to tame, to understand, to _like_. “You’re sick, you’re in pain, you’re seeing everything in dark shades. You’ll feel better once you feed.”

“I’ll just feel able to lie and pretend I’m happy, you mean.” Another dry laugh. It’s meant to hurt.

Perhaps it’s succeeding.

“You tell me you were never happy with me? For real, Sebastian? You tell me all your smiles were fake, all the times?”

He can’t believe that.

Nines may not be the brightest people person in town, he is not _that_ blind.

“They were all you wanted to see,” the Ventrue snarls. “You wanted to be the hero who protects the weak. It was always about you, never about _me_.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Keep control.

“You cannot mean that.”

“Of course not. Thank you so much for explaining my own thoughts to me,” Sebastian answers, trying to pull off a honeyed tone and failing. “Do you want me to pretend? Do you want me to act like I matter in all of this?”

“You do, damnit –“

“I know exactly what I am! I am an overused _tool_ no one cares about! I told you! I’m used to it! Do you want me to pretend it’s not like that? I can be anything you want.”

“For God’s sake Sebastian **_stop talking_**.” _Stop talking or I’ll be itching to break plates again._ “Listen. I don’t know what your sire and all the higher up you remember did to you. What I know is that I’m not handling any of this well, but I’m trying. I’m trying to help you and – yeah, at first? It was for my own sake. I’m not deluded enough not to see that. You don’t have to forgive me for the blood but hell if I’ll let you believe I don’t give a fuck about you!”

“Oh, I know exactly how many… _fucks_ , you give about me.”

“Yeah well sorry, it’s not my fault you’re actually likable.”

Again, it is supposed to sound like a joke – like something that might let some steam out of the machine.

And of course, it doesn’t work that way.

“I’m not –“ Full stop, faraway look, and then a mumble that makes Sebastian sound like a vexed teenager. “I’m not likable and I don’t… you’d be disappointed. I’m not into – I don’t do this kind of things.”

“Useless depravity,” Nines repeats, trying to sound more or less like Lacroix and managing a surprisingly good imitation – who would have thought? “Well let’s be honest,” he admits, scratching at his evening stubbles, “that was one of the dumbest things I’ve done. I don’t know what I’m more confused about – Corte-Real or Callaghan. Anyway, uh, I’m not expecting anything from you. Especially after such, hm… less than smooth attempt at flirting with you, I suppose.”

Silence.

God this is so embarrassing.

“So, hm. Listen. You’re not well and – you’re allowed to be unwell, okay? I…” … _will pretend not to mind. For now_. “I really do need to know what your blood preference is. You can’t stay like this.”

Silence.

 _Please Sebastian don’t be difficult_.

“Soldiers,” the Ventrue admits. “I thought you knew.”

“No. What I thought was that it worked and as long as you didn’t know, it would keep working – and I didn’t want to bother you with how odd it was you could drink everything.”

Silence.

Then: “So you went to find another Ventrue and told them I could?”

“I needed to know –“

“You understand my mentor will cut all ties with me?” Sebastian asks gloomily. “And my Lord will never let me live if words get out that I am a caitiff?”

“Your Lord is a world’s away!”

“He doesn’t _feel_ a world’s away!” Sebastian explodes. “What I _feel_ is the weight of his hand on my neck. No Elder Ventrue will bear the stain of having sire a caitiff, _none_ – and think not he will hesitate! And if he doesn’t? You understand no Ventrue will ever want to be associated with me?”

“Who cares about this bunch of old fools? They’re probably the ones who filled your head with all this bullshit you say about yourself! You’ll be better without them – stay with me. We save L.A together, the Free States and –“

“And the former Prince turns anarch, and everyone lives happily ever after?”

“Yeah.”

“Pray to God then, Nines,” Sebastian laughs.

It’s not a happy sound.

“Because you’ll need a _miracle_ to make that happen.”

***

From Damsel: HEY BOI

From Damsel: Guess whos the new Downtown representative!!!

From Damsel: Didn’t even have 2 convince any1

From Damsel: Every1 HYPED

From Damsel: WERE GONNA KICK A$$!!!

From Skelter: Congratsman

From me: U the best kid!!!!

From me: Need help with smth

From me: Ur not going 2 like

From Damsel: Damn

From Damsel: Its abt His Majesty?

From me: Yes

From me: U or Skelter know where 2find soldiers blood?

From Skelter: Not easily

From Skelter: But prob yes

From me: Plz help

From me: I think I broke my ventru

From me: Need soldier blood 2 repair

From Damsel: worst timing wow

From Skelter: OK

From Skelter: Ill take care U call the others for the alliance

From me: Thx Ur a real friend

***

Nines doesn’t know if Sebastian is sleeping, comatose or pretending when he leaves the bedroom – maybe the Ventrue exhausted himself with his outburst, maybe he simply doesn’t want to talk to Nines anymore.

The Brujah has a phone call to make and that’s another conversation he doesn’t want to have, but right now, it’s a nice excuse to escape the chamber.

The phone rings for such a long time he is almost surprised when Callaghan’s voice comes out the battered Nokia, distorted, yet not enough to ignore the slightly defensive tone. “Hi Nines. Didn’t know if I should expect you. You alright?”

“I’m calling for business,” Nines starts. He lets his feet carry him in the living room. He needs to be on the move if he wants this to go reasonably well. “I’ll be the representative for the Downtown anarchs. Any meeting planned with your boss and the barons?”

“Yeah… Not sure I can bring you in… I need to check with my boss.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“You spat on everyone’s shoes and you hope they will just forget that? I’m sorry, what I do off work is my own business, L.A politics isn’t.”

“That’s a little easy, don’t you think?” Nines exclaims. He takes a deep breath and resumes, trying to sound more grounded and _not_ angry. “You and I both know there’s a lot you aren’t telling her.”

“I’m calling the boss as soon as the house T gadget agrees to work. She’s sitting in council, I can’t invite you without her assent. I’m sure I can convince her, but I have my conditions.”

“Your _conditions_.” As if Nines were the one to blame for the situation there are in.

“You and I need to talk about us and set things straight. Hear what you want, hear what I want and come clean. We need to be able to work together without you insulting me at random times.”

“My bad for hoping you wouldn’t backstab me.”

“Only your friends can betray you, Nines, stop giving me shit just because I’m doing my job. That’s you being irrational because we slept together. We need to talk about that. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

“Whatever.”

He switches the phone off.

This is going to be another fun night in L.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG what's going to happen?
> 
> Will Skelter find the blood and save the night?  
> Will Callaghan and Nines manage to get along?  
> What's the next nickname Damsel will find for Sebastian?  
> Is Sebastian a caitiff or not???
> 
> Have a good day/night, dear readers!


	18. Interlude 2: The first dance

**Bordeaux  
**1859

The Kindreds of Bordeaux meet their Toulouse neighbors under the lights of the Grand Theatre. The old building has been bedecked with flower garlands to cover the old paints, as radiant as the dresses of the colorful Toréador guests; jewels shine against the milk white throats of splendid ladies, golden embroideries and fanciful masks adorn the men.

Kindred parties are not your usual cup of tea, as far as Bordeaux goes. Your friendship with De Morsac is a discreet one – nothing to be flaunted on the polished parquet of the ballroom, especially since these festivities are barely more than mortals playing together. Your Reflection could steal a face as well as some dances, undetected even by the Toréadors in the room; you are not so sure about your own Obfuscate.

You are content to lurk. A masked stranger, silver mask and black suit, prowling from shadow to shadow, watching the young ones celebrate what they believe is a great victory – that is, in fact, the completion of your payment. Lourdes! What a joke! Such a petty town when you promised its streets in exchange of Sébastien – and for what? Some mad girl pretended to see angels in a local cave a year ago, and now, it is filled with too much Faith to be of any value.

How funny – it is not even your fault.

Let them have their pleasure in the shadows of the games you play with their master. You have your own to seek tonight; the result of your meddling to observe; the protégé of your ally, soberly clad in black.

Sébastien Lacroix.

No enjoyment there, you note. The lad does not dance, does not laugh; once in a while he smiles, politely, like a little doll that has been taught happiness may break the porcelain of his cheeks. He accepts compliments for his role in the last battles; he declines the offers to let himself be carried away by those petty social butterflies.

Until the offer comes from you – not by words. A call of the Blood. You left the room already; you can picture him as clearly as if you were here: the sudden urge to leave the crowd, the seemingly aimless walk in the hallways.

You do not make your call strong. He wanders, you follow; at some point he stops. There are men conversing there, and Lacroix’s mind gives meaning to his escape: these men wear uniforms, and he is hungry.

You hear the thoughts as clearly as you would see fishes circling in a transparent pond. _You shall drink only from soldiers_. That fish is slippery, almost invisible to you, and one Lacroix is not aware off: it is something his mind had always known, a string pulling at the mechanism of the false being his sire constructed. He confuses the Dominate compulsion with _need_ – and goes anyway, managing through smart talk and well-timed Presence to isolate a prey.

It is interesting, to see Kindred feed.

You have seen it all. The cruel, the farmers, the seducers, and the ones who feel shame coat their fangs after the act.

You see the gears turning, the words engraved in the boy’s skull: _you shall not take pleasure in the act of taking blood, for this is the way of the depraved_.

And so he does not, like the well-crafted automaton he is – erasing the memory of whatever is supposed to have happened from the kine’s mind, straightening his clothes to erase the creases left when the soldier’s hand grabbed his waist, his face blank except for an hint of disgust.

You tug at the call of Blood to lure your prey in a secluded room, close enough to the orchestra’s stage for the music to flow around you. You do not try to quench the growls of your Beast – just like you, she sees De Vandreuil’s imprint as the offensive tenets of an unlife not worth being _lived_. 

The boy looks surprised – but not for long. Forty years around your kind taught him to accept the leash of the Elders without flinching. He schools his feature into polite cordiality, crosses his hands behind his back and waits.

“My congratulations, Damoiseau. I heard you performed splendidly in the last battles.”

Your voice is smooth, warm; he accepts the compliment with a short nod, and eyes that do not know if they should look down with humility or bear your stare with pride.

“Thank you, Messire. I merely did my duty.”

“Son Altesse de Morsac has reasons to be pleased with you.” _A very satisfying purchase, and cheaply bought_ were the exact word, but they lacked fondness. Not that Morsac dislikes the neonate; in fact, you are quite certain he has for him the affection a hunter may have for a favored dog, which is more than Morsac feels for most of his court. “Yet I have not seen you partaking in tonight’s festivities.”

“I fear I am not used to them,” Lacroix answers with caution. “I ask for nothing more than to serve.”

“Oh, I know.” _For you have been crafted this way, poor creature_. Why would an old monster like Vandreuil wipe out a person entirely to build his own toy, if not to have a dedicated servant with no other desire than to be useful? “Would you be so kind and keep me company for a while?”

He nods. Unsure of himself, wondering what you are up to, but unable to think of refusing you – he would, were you to ask him to betray his new master, but you are planning nothing of the sort.

You extend a hand, palm up.

“Will you give me a dance, Damoiseau Lacroix?” You ask, words in tune with the waltz played on the other side of the wooden walls.

You see panic flare into his aura – and nothing on his face. His cold hand slips into yours with words of self-deprecation: “I do not dance well, Messire.”

“Will you let me lead?”

 _Lead_ , you say, a simple word you coat with just enough Blood to make it sound like sugar and exotic spices, like fingers running lightly on his spine; it is a promise that you shall not only show him the steps, but lead him toward way _more_ – into something sour De Vandreuil would never approve of. _For a Ventrue behaves always with dignity, and shall not debase himself with futile depravity._

“Yes,” Lacroix answers, _for a Ventrue shall never contradict a respectable Elder, and shall obey them to the best of his abilities_.

He is smaller than you are, a product of the famished end of the XVIIIth century; smaller and awkward, not having been taught the steps of the women. You suppose his sire has a thousand condemnations ready for such things – his servant, letting an Archbishop of the Sabbat lay a firm hand on his waist, looking into his eyes and giving him a smoldering look of appreciation.

“Do you like dancing, Damoiseau?” you ask, as he stiffly follows your simple steps.

“I do not dance well,” Lacroix repeats, if that was somehow a valid response to your inquiry.

“Ah! But dancing can be a pleasure, not a feat – and pleasure can be pursued for the sake of the moment, rather than the quality of the performance.”

“I do not indulge in meaningless gratification.” _For a Ventrue seeks power, respect, and the grandeur of the Camarilla; never his own, fleeting sensations_. “I am afraid that has left me ill prepared for such occasions, Messire.”

“I can teach you.”

“How to dance?”

“Yes.”

No.

How to indulge in meaningless gratification – how to learn to be something De Vandreuil did not plan when he made this artificial thing, this little automaton whose fingers you can crush like the bones of a bird. Lacroix is not a novel thing anymore; a decade has gone by since you bought his place in Bordeaux, a decade to get used to the idea De Vandreuil, a Ventrue, managed a feat of mindcrafting many Lasombra would have envied – but for what? You clan did indulge in the making of such Childer, once. The fashion passed for a reason. Too much time to craft the perfect Childe, only to see them crumble before the turn of a decade.

But Lacroix is old, and you do not know, yet, why he still functions.

“I thank you for your guidance.”

You do not ask him to betray anyone but himself, and so he does – he lets you tie a blindfold around his eyes, lets you take his hand and his waist again and pull him much closer; he lets your unmasked lips whisper close to his brow: “Follow me, Sébastien, and I shall show you how it’s done.”

Another hint of Blood – he shivers under your touch. He is used to the power of Elders, but not to what you are doing to him; that your Presence calls for worship, yes, but the adoration singing in his blood is not for yourself. It is all for him, for him to believe every step is for his enjoyment alone; that each pressure of your finger is a caress dedicated to praising the most wonderful creature on earth.

You see it, clear as you can hear your Reflection’s voice when he sings his visions into your mind.

You see how those touches, those words, your powers seep into him – touch something that De Vandreuil chose to ignore. A withered seed of self-worth that barely started to remember itself under De Morsac’s more benevolent mentorship.

The Marquis knows how to teach.

But he does not know how to adore.

You do.

In the span of a dance, the body in your arms turns from unyielding oak to supple reed; you do not let go as the next one begins, and the next one, and another one that ends with your arms around him and your lips close enough for a kiss you will not give.

It is too soon, and he is drunk with the powers of your blood, and trembling still from the tension of his sire’s words echoing in every corner of his being, forbidding, shaming, making your gift almost painful to enjoy and yet – yet he is a man dying of thirst that has been offered water, and seeks nothing but to drink his fill.

You see it, clear as the stars when you sailed across the ocean.

What Sébastien Lacroix lacks, and how he starves for what his sire deemed unimportant – to be adored without condition, for nothing else but the feat of _existing_ ; to be asked nothing but to be; to be shielded against anything that is not undiluted appreciation.

You kiss his brow, not with the usual lust that inhabit your unbeating heart, but the infinite tenderness that will etch itself in his soul forever – and you know, then, what you mean to do with De Vandreuil’s creation.

Break it, until the doll gains true life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep Corte-Real is on a Path, and it shows lol.


	19. Book 1, Ch16: Let it be, I'm the only one listening

The night’s drizzled has turned into a downpour by the time Nines reaches Santa Monica’s beach. A broken light bulb flickers on and off at the end of the tunnel leading to the seaside that, tonight, seems to lead to nothing but a dark curtain of rain.

On, off, on, off it goes, getting on the Brujah’s nerves as the yellowish tint flashes periodically on the silhouette leaning against the brick walls.

“Why the pier?” Nines asks, not bothering to hide how guarded he feels about all of this – because the memories of Callaghan are still too hard to classify, between enemy, spy, provocateur, lover; lines Nines shouldn’t have crossed. But what he needs to do for L.A, he cannot do without the Toreador; cannot afford to lose more time.

Or maybe that is only what he tells himself to justify that he can’t get enough of that stupid, half-mocking smile.

The Cammie has the gall to jest: “Isn’t that the place where you bring your dates?”

It’s not funny, so Nines respond with nothing but a sullen glare.

The light flickers on and off, and Callaghan’s smile disappears in one of those instants of darkness. “How are you?”

He sounds like he almost cares.

Or: he sounds like he either cares or can fake like some of the best Hollywood actors.

“Have trouble knowing where I stand with you, to be honest,” Nines admits. No need to hide that. They must cut that wound open and extract the venom. “That night, I wasn’t… myself.”

“You sounded weird.” Lights goes off. Concern is painted all over the pretty Toreador face when it comes back. “I thought it was on purpose. You’re too old to be drinking drugged blood by mistake, no offence.”

“That wasn’t –“

Is Corte-Real’s intervention something Nines wants to speak about? He’s been compromised left and right – manipulated by the Sabbat Elder into sleeping with the Camarilla police. If anyone were to know that, hell if he’d remain representative of anything more than his own haven for more than an hour. “Don’t pretend this is not going well for you, Callaghan. If the Camarilla wanted to destroy me, you’ve been the perfect tool for that.”

“Why? Because we fucked? Don’t be so dramatic, Rodriguez, it’s not like we entered the holy bloodbonds of marriage, so can you stop speaking like you’re wondering if you should break up with me or ask me to be your boyfriend?”

“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend!”

“Then why shouldn’t I sleep with Jeanette Voerman?” The Toreador digs his hands into his pockets, sighs, shakes his head, takes his hands out and rubs his brow. “Listen. I want this to work, because I’m not planning on staying in L.A. I’m usually in Europe and I don’t give a flying fuck about your local revolution, I have no reasons to be hostile to you – you are smoking hot and that was reason enough for me. It was all rather fun but I cannot let this get in the way of my job, so I need to know what’s up. Or just know if we can still work together. I’ve got some news and a last gift for you, then it’s your call – tell me if I should cut my losses there.”

In a smooth gesture, he dislodges a sport bag from his shoulder, letting it slide and handing it to Nines.

“Tapes from Lacroix’s haven. _Personal_ ones.”

“Why?”

What’s the trap? Nines accepts the bag, opens it, but it’s exactly as Callaghan said: tapes in little boxes with cryptic labels such as _sound test 1963_ , _R Let it be_ , _Voicemail CS 2004_ or _CSR Don’t stop me now/I want it all_. No hidden bomb, and though Nines will throw the bag in some trash bin to avoid tracers, the tapes look legit.

“They are of no interest to us,” Callaghan admits. “Maybe they can help with…” A shrug. “Whatever you’re doing with him. Last peace offering.”

“You sure this is from Lacroix?” The titles sound like rather… not ventrue. “That’s all from Queens, the Beatles, Elvis Presley…”

“Yeah. I think he kept them for the singers rather than the songs. R, CS…” The light flickers. Callaghan smiles, all smug with some more secrets holds close to his chest. “Maybe I’ll tell you who those people are. Another night.”

“Think I’ll take the bait?”

“Your call.” The Toreador steps forward to leave, back to the parking lots, and the tunnel suddenly feels too small – too small not to notice his perfume, the curve of the lips, not to feel the Beast give a low moan of _want_ as memories flood back.

Too small a space not to grab his arm. Such a small, quick gesture; quicker than the rational thoughts that would have Nines let him go and never call him back.

And now, now he has ample time to look back into those dark eyes. To wonder what to do with the leather and flesh under his fingers; to wonder how to react to the raised eyebrow, and why Callaghan never seems afraid of what Nines may do to him.

He doesn’t know why, exactly, he drops the bag. Only that his hands upon the Toreador’s neck makes Nines shiver. It doesn’t feel – he doesn’t know how to name it. There is something feral in the desire sparking from this sole touch. As if getting bitten by this man was something that appealed to the bloody monster nestling in his chest, and that bitch wants a replay.

Nines needs to know.

He needs to know if that night was all Corte-Real or if –

The kiss has too much teeth at first, Nines being too forceful and Callaghan more confused than not – but then the Toreador gets his act together, his arms around Nines and his fingers in his hair, pulling hard enough to spice it up and light enough not to be painful and –

It wasn’t Corte-Real.

Not all of it anyway, because Callaghan’s tongue still has the power to make Nines’ Beast growl with the anticipation of a Kiss he _shouldn’t_ seek.

He won’t.

Ask Callaghan for more.

It was a mistake, kissing him, because it doesn’t feel like one – it feels like something Nines will keep acting stupid for.

“We’re not getting a room,” he pants. Trying to sound like he knows what he is doing and failing, because he’s already burned the blood that make his skin feel warm. It’s half a question, and it wasn’t meant to be. “I needed to know if it was… me. The other night. If that’s something I would have done without…” some creepy Elder messing with his head. “… the drugs.”

“And?” Callaghan breathes, lips an inch away from Nines mouth. “What am I, Rodriguez? Your personal development experiment?”

“You’re a smoking hot guy who isn’t stayi – ” 

Callaghan’s mouth is on him before he can finish, stealing a quick kiss and leaving with teeth grazing at Nines’ lower lips. “Fair.”

Maybe that’s what Callaghan is.

Merely the guy that happened to be there when Corte-Real unearthed something Nines had never explored about himself, and there’s no need to worry too much about this.

“Tomorrow,” Callaghan whispers as his arm slips away from Nines waist – slowly, making the gesture feel reluctant. “Eleven o’clock, at Abrams’ place. The Barons will be meeting Walstein to discuss the war. I’ll tell them to expect you.”

“Right.”

Should perhaps say thanks but will not. Nines is there because that’s the right thing to do, and it’s not like he should _thank_ anyone for being allowed to defend his own city.

He lets Callaghan leave first. At the last moment the Toreador turns, right before the stairs, and gives him a wink.

 _Just some hot guy leaving town soon_ , Nines tries to convince himself.

Right.

***

**#sound test 1963#**

Sebastian: …ush the … is… too far away to catch the sound?

Unknown1: …recording now?

_Unknown1 speaks with an English accent. The tone is playful. Both men sound at ease._

Sebastian: Let me try…

…

Sebastian: … I think it works.

Unknown1: What humans are up to, it’s fascinating.

Unknown1: How good will we sound?

Sebastian: I do not expect it will do you justice.

Unknown1: Flatterer.

Unknown1: Do you have spares?

Sebastian: Yes _._

Sebastian: We can waste this one for tests.

Unknown1: What song do you want?

Sebastian: You know I have no tastes, as far as music go.

_Unknown1 laughs.  
This is not a mocking laugh._

Unknown1: This is not true. I will pick the song then.

_Guitar’s strings are pinched.  
The sound quality is not great.  
The tape recorder is an early one, not meant for music._

Unknown1: Do you know this one?

Sebastian _: #Unclear answer.#_

_Unknown1 starts to sing.  
1963 song, Bob Dylan  
Blowin’ in the wind_

How many roads must a man walk down  
Before you call him a man?  
How many seas must a white dove sail  
Before she sleeps in the sand?  
Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly  
Before they're forever banned?

_Unknown1 is a good singer.  
Sounding warm and loving even through the bad recording.  
He stops after this beginning._

Unknown1: Now?

Sebastian: Everyone knows that one.

Sebastian: I see where this is going.

Sebastian: I am not singing your Anarch song.

_Sebastian sounds amused.  
A few riffs from the guitar fill the space between words._

Unknown1: Even if I’m the one to ask?

Sebastian: I am not singing, period.

_Unknown1 resumes._

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind  
The answer is blowin' in the wind

_He keeps playing as he talks._

Unknown1: There’s no one but me listening.

Sebastian: I don’t know how to sing, you know that.

Unknown1: It’s not about singing well.

Sebastian: I don’t know the lyrics.

Unknown1: You’re allowed to sing _la la la_ instead of the lyrics.

Sebastian: Ventrues don’t _la la la_ Anarch songs, please. _#Laugher#_ Just sing it yourself.

Sebastian: It’s a good song for you.

Sebastian: I will be glad to sit back and listen.

_Unknown1 resumes._

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind  
The answer is blowin' in the wind

Yes, and how many years must a mountain exist  
Before it is washed to the sea?  
And how many years can some people exist  
Before they're allowed to be free?  
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head  
And pretend that he just doesn't see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind  
The answer is blowin' in the wind

Yes, and how many times must a man look up  
Before he can see the sky?  
And how many ears must one man have  
Before he can hear people cry?  
Yes, and how many deaths will it take 'til he knows  
That too many people have died?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind  
The answer is blowin' in the wind…

***

Nines finds the flat full of the sounds of a stupid night show. Damsel is sitting on the couch, heels upon the low table, one of Sebastian’s books open on her knees, and her hand on the handle of her gun, until she is certain this is merely Nines coming home.

“Hey Dam’. Any problem with…” He gestures to the closed door of the bedchamber with his chin.

“Nah. I wish he gave me a reason to punch his stupid face but all he’s done is _sleep_.” She sounds like the lack of provocation on Sebastian’s part is some great injustice.

It’s a real relief.

Not that Nines believed Damsel would really hurt Sebastian when he left her to guard him – friendship trumps her hatred for the guy, and Nines trusts her with his life. “I’m glad he behaved.” And did not try to attack her or dominate her or do anything equally stupid. “I’ll have to leave for a few hours tomorrow night. Callaghan gave me the time of the next meeting with the big shots.”

“Need me for another boring babysitting?” She feigns a yawn. “I’ll know everything about France by the time you return. Frog Prince is the one who wrote in that thing’s margins?”

“It’s personal.” Like that first tape Nines tried because he wasn’t sure there was anything good for Sebastian in it – and damn, _damn_.

Why does he even feel surprised Sebastian had friends in his former life? What did he think, that because he hated Prince Lecroix, there was no one who did not? _R, CS, CSR_? Are they people who would be better suited to care for him?

“It’s all written in French,” Damsel says, “and all I can understand is _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_ and _croissants_. Turns out he wrote neither.”

The book lands on the low table with a soft thud as she stands, stretches and then swoops her beret from the top of a cushion. “You have a back up plan? If Skelter cannot find the blood quickly enough?”

“Will stake him if I must,” Nines answers. If he _must_ , and he hopes Sebastian will consent, because Nines doesn’t want a replay of the whole _you poisoned me_ drama.

“Well if you do I’m aaaaaaaaalways itching for this kind o’help. You know who to call.”

“Sure.” Except he won’t, because Sebastian would go all naked fangs and presence-loaded stares the moment he’ll see Damsel enter with her aggressive swagger. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Sure,” she repeats.

Sounding like she totally hopes it will come to that.

Nines switches the TV off once she is gone, searches for a cassette player he finally finds in the bedroom. Sebastian doesn’t move at all, curled beneath the covers with nothing but hair, eyebrows and closed eyes visible; if he is awake, he is good at pretending he isn’t.

Back to the living room. He rummages in the plastic bags containing all the tapes, fishes _R Let it be_ out of it. The label wasn’t written by Sebastian’s more or less round letters – much more spiky.

He presses “play”.

The sound is much better on that one and contains nothing but the song: two guitars pretending to be the piano in the Beatles’ song, and then the voice of the _Blowin’ in the wind_ singer, as warm as ever and full of emotions.

_When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be  
And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me  
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be_

Nines goes through the tapes. Not a single one has a full name, and it’s always the same letters: R, CS, sometimes RCS or CSR, some with dates, most with song names. The Beatles, Presley, Queen, some other less known groups but mostly those, a few odd ones that sound French: _Que serais-je sans toi_ , _Aimer à en perdre la raison_ …

Maybe he should ask Callaghan who they are – find a way to reach those people, tell them their friend needs help. Better help than… whatever Nines has been doing.

He doesn’t hear the door creaking.

_And when the broken hearted people living in the world agree  
There will be an answer, let it be  
For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see  
There will be an answer, let it be_

He feels the couch sinking, where Sebastian is sitting now, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

Sitting very close to Nines, close enough for the Brujah to hear the trickle of shy sounds escaping from cracked lips: “ _And when the night is hm hm hm still a light that shines on me hm hm hm until tomorrow, let it be…. Hm hm hm to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of hm hm, let it go…”_

Sebastian was right, forty years ago – he is not the singer the mysterious R is, and he still doesn’t know the lyrics.

_Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be, be_

But in that moment, his voice sounds like a blessing from heaven to Nines’ ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would LOVE to know how many people have read the story this far, so please, if you are still with me, consider leaving a comment? I love ALL comments, from "<3" to long analysis so please, don't be afraid to interacting <3
> 
> The songs!  
> The first one is Blowin' in the wind, sung by Bob Dylan in 1963.  
> The second one, Let it be by the Beatles, out in 1968.
> 
> The two french songs, Que serais-je sans toi (What would I be without you) and Aimer à en perdre la raison (To love until I lose my mind) are two songs from Jean Ferrat adapted from poems by Louis Aragon, a french poet who was also a communist, a socialist, a member of the French Resistance during WW2. Jean Ferrat himself was not a communist per se (as he wasn't very fond of the USSR) but still had a lost of sympathies for communism. Like most of the tapes staring R/Unknown1, those songs are kind of odd for Lacroix to keep, both because of the original artists and because they are shameless love songs with feelings everywhere (and we know a proper ventrue doesn't have feelings, he only has spreadsheets).
> 
> CS's songs have a tendency to be more in line thematically with a Ventrue (with a preference for some of Queen's most "uplifting" songs like Princes of the Universe lol), but the choice of *Queen* may be surprising as well. 
> 
> So who are R/Unknown1 and CS? I'm taking bets!


	20. Book 1, Ch17: Not a hill to die on

The meeting place stinks of Fortier, Abrams or both: a villa in the hills of Hollywood, close to the domain of the Ventrue baron. Small but beautiful enough for Nines’ car to look out of place: old paint that gives way to rust in places, a body with too many bumps to count, missing hubcaps, and that’s just the _outside,_ parked in a very neat alley overshadowed by trees.

Hands digging into the pockets of his jeans, Nines walks between the big, black, pristine luxury cars of his new allies and bonus bodyguards with enough firepower to down a small platoon of thugs. It makes his skin crawls. Abrams’ wouldn’t hurt him, Fortier would probably have enough respect for a fellow Anarch not to; but Nines is sure some of those are cammies, and all it would take is one word from their Archon boss to start shooting.

He stops to watch another fancy, black big car enter the courtyard, watches as an elegant woman with blond hair tied into a strict bun steps out.

The skin-crawling turns into a very unpleasant itch.

“Voerman,” he greets her, none too gently, and the glare she gives him in response is scathing.

“Rodriguez. A word before we go farther.”

There are times when sullen silence is the politest answer a man can give.

“I am fully aware of the little… visit, your red-haired pug paid my sister. I would advise that your friends _and_ you avoid Santa-Monica for a while.”

“Or?” Red-haired _pug_? Who the fuck this bitch thinks she is? “Maybe my friends wouldn’t be tempted to have words with your sister if she kept her mouth shut.”

“I do not take well to threats, Rodriguez,” Voerman intones, straightening her back, as if her high heels and the size of her ego were enough for her to look down on Nines through her glasses. It’s not enough, especially when he raises his chin and crosses his arms, showing off muscles awaiting the slightest provocation to get some action. “Keep out of my domain. As for Damsel, were I to find her in Santa Monica, I will be sure to send you the coordinates to fish her from wherever I will have thrown the concrete bloc she’ll be in.”

“ _I do not take well to threats_ ,” Nines mimics. “You think you’re the only one?”

“Ladies and gentlemen!”

Neither Nines nor Voerman turn toward the newcomer, as if looking away were an admission of defeat – and that voice, interrupting them, now! Nines takes a deep breath in. Wrong decision – now Therese’s perfume is stuck in his nose, and he thoroughly dislikes that his second inspiration brings Callaghan’s into the mix.

What’s Jeanette’s perfume? Same as her sister? If the rumors are right…

Were those scents the ones left on their pillows once they were done, blended as one on gaudy satin?

“I am glad you two made it safely,” James Callaghan croons, his presence – most probably backed by the supernatural kind – forcing the daggers away from the space between the two Kindred. “The meeting is about to start, if you would follow me? M. Rodriguez, if you can spare a moment…”

Therese leaves them without another look, all crisp in her black suit, very fitting for a Kindred waiting for nothing but debase herself with the Camarilla – a Prince, her? She can try and see how long it takes for the city to devour her!

“Keep in mind a lot happened before you joined,” the Toreador whispers hurriedly, wrenching Nines’ attention from the red haze gnawing at his spine. “A treaty has been all but brokered, to be signed tonight. It’s too late now for you to change anything but a few details and I doubt the others will want to spend much time it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” And why the fuck invite him if all he can do is watch things unfold?

“I have a feeling surprise won’t suit you tonight.”

“What _surprise_ , that this is a complete loss my time?”

Callaghan sighs. “Cool down, it _isn’t_. There’s a lot of things going on and the treaty isn’t the hill you should pick to die on.”

“Thanks for the patronizing advices.”

As if Nines would trust a _servire_ to tell him what fights he should pick.

But ultimately: Callaghan is right, and Nines is too late.

Too late to do anything but discover the terms spread out before them – terms the barons already agreed with, and Nines can either swallow them or walk away, back to square one without collecting the promised cash.

Let the Camarilla have San Diego.

Let the Tremere Chantry remain in L.A and swear an oath of honor the Anarchs will let it be.

Agree to welcome in L.A all the San Diego Anarchs who will not be allowed to stay in their city once the Camarilla settle in.

Let the Camarilla take control of the customs of L.A to watch over sabbat incursion from Mexico.

_Cowards. We’re all fucking sell out._

Bend down and let the Camarilla walk over their humiliated Free States with the army they promise – the army that took New York from the Sabbat in the 90s. Seasoned Archons, war trained ghouls, firepower and the metaphorical muscles to turn the city into a silent zone long enough to clean it without too much Masquerade breaches.

“Does this council, representing the Kindreds of L.A, assent to the terms of the treaty?”

_Cowards._

All of them. Fuck their polite nods, fuck Walstein’s smug face, _fuck it all_.

“Does anyone wish to contest the terms?”

_Sell out._

All of them, staying put in their chair as the document is passed along. Of course the cammies would want their signature – doesn’t the Camarilla love some paper pushing? It’s just a piece of glorified toilet paper they can wave their way once it’s all over – and walk on once they decide L.A shouldn’t be that free after all.

But the treaty reaches Nines, and when it does, he doesn’t see what else to do – they need the troops, they can’t let a Sabbat crusade have San Diego and then what's left of L.A, better the Camarilla than _them_ , Downtown needs to stand united with everyone else and...

He shouldn’t put his name on this.

Jeremy NcNeil would have found a way.

He wouldn’t have stared dumbly at the pen in Therese’s hand wondering _how the fuck did I manage to get myself in this situation_.

Nines can still quit. Can still stand, hard and quicky enough to send his chair flying. Kick that pen away, shout that this is disgraceful and… what? Watch the other barons stand and follow him on his way out?

They won’t.

Isaac Abrams. Louis Fortier. Veterans of the first revolt.

They won’t. It’s written all over their faces.

Jonas Williams.

Therese Voerman.

All the others, sitting, their names blood red beside Walstein’s.

What options remain? Leaving, going back to the Last Round and the Hanged Man and declare, proudly, that he left the alliance barely a night after he was appointed?

The pen breaks between his fingers.

It breaks, but too late – ink bleeds by his name, a red, angry blotch, but it’s not enough, not enough ink to cover the letters, R-O-D-R-I-G-U-E-Z ( _traitor_ ), make the compromise of his principles disappears ( _TRAITOR_ ). 

Maybe Callaghan was right.

Maybe this is not a hill to die on – but it still feels like the beginning of the fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to have two other scenes, but I have been a very very slow writer this week, and I feel like I need you all and some encouragements to get the machine running again. I am moving to a new flat and work has been a lot; have been constantly empty headed (or more accurately, head so full I was exhausted), wanting to write and not able to. 
> 
> And I really wanted to get to the next Nines/Sebastian's scenes. One is a bit hot, the other a bit fluff. But it's so much efforts right now, I just wish the story would write itself and allow me to just read and enjoy. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter even if it's not the chapter I wanted to publish tonight - but at least there is something, and I guess it's better that nothing.


	21. Book 1, Ch18: I want you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this sunday was a good writing, please enjoy the dubcon moment of the night.

He doesn’t remember driving back – only that maybe, maybe he should get a chauffeur before he runs over some innocent passer by in a state of frenzy.

He doesn’t remember, and just sort of wakes up behind the wheel, bellow the appartements bloc where Damsel is watching over Sebastian. The broken, flickering neon of a cheap clothes shop pierces the red haze; then it’s the sight of curvy women dancing on the front of an abandoned coffee shop. He remembers, yes. A year ago, a street artist painted those to hide some of the street’s poverty under bright colors. Tried to reclaim the city by camouflaging emptiness under some positive feelings. Nines supposes the women are supposed to look happy. Bright. Alive.

Under the yellowish streetlamps, they look sick.

He blinks. It has been happening way too much of late. The loss of control, the red fog engulfing everything, the sudden anger. He’s used to fury, but…

Maybe that’s because his rage led somewhere. Lacroix, Lacroix was so damn convenient. The Prince just had to move a finger and that was an hour of jeers and threats at the Last Round. Way to keep the nights occupied, way to get the Beast clawing at something so unreachable, it was, it really sounded like a proper outlet.

 _We were fucking children_. And Corte-Real is right. If they had put those hours of meaningless rumble to use… or just ambushed the damn Prince, perhaps they’d have gotten somewhere before the fool self-destructed with the sarcophagus. McNeil would have done that. Salvador Garcia would have done that. All the big shots of the Revolt. What had Nines done? Wait until his foe a martyr out of him.

He must stop _reacting_. Damn it, there must be some way to be one step ahead for once!

He’s walking up the stairs and stops. Somehow, he doesn’t know if he’s walking into something better or worse than what he just left behind. Damsel – he’ll have to tell Damsel about what he just did. That’s just the start. Damsel first, then everyone else. How he attached his name in crimson letters to what is, to be truthfull, a surrender.

And Sebastian. He’s walking up to Sebastian.

Maybe Skelter got the blood and he’ll find Sebastian steady and able to listen and help him unpack all of this with his surgical questioning. Or he’ll find him soft and sweet and easygoing, removed from this place and time.

Maybe he’ll find him starving, eyes full of accusations and mouth dripping with venom.

Better find out quick – waiting is always harder than walking straight into disaster.

The flat is dark, Damsel having switched on a side lamp on by the couch and nothing else. The deep voice of Deb of the Night floats sweet and sultry; the door of the bedroom is closed, and all it takes is one look shared between the two Kindreds to guess Skelter hasn’t saved the night yet.

One shared look to know that neither did Nines.

“How did it go?” She asks. She was typing on her computer, lounging lazily on the couch; now, she sets the laptop down on a low table and sits.

Fully alert.

Expecting the worst.

“I’m –“ _…a traitorous scum_. “I don’t think I’m made for this, Dam’.” God this is so _awkward_. Fourteen is exactly how he feels, telling mom he lost the money she gave him for the Sunday special meal, the one that included actual meat. “We gave them San Diego for an army.”

No, not really – the other barons did, gave away their fellow Anarch city. But Nines went along with it and attached himself to the bandwagon of betrayers.

So yes.

 _We_.

Because he was too late to figure out a better way.

“… you want me to tell the others?” Damsel asks. It’s not a condemnation. She waited a long time, uncomfortable silence stretched, before the offer came out of her mouth. She’s disappointed. Pissed off. But Damsel loves him, loves him enough to pretend it’s not his _fault_ and to be the messenger of his failure; to take upon herself the accusations that will fly from all side once the Downtown Anarchs will know.

Another man would agree. Maybe if he keeps sliding down that hill, one night, _Nines_ will agree.

Not tonight. “No. Our people deserve the truth from the leader they appointed. They can kick me away if they want – I deserve that, I’ll step down if they want. I’m not letting someone else take the blame for my own mess.”

“It’s _our_ mess,” Damsel retorts, frowning. “Ours, Nines, because the moment Skelter and I convinced everyone you were the right guy, we enlisted to support you. We’re in this together, right?”

“Right.”

“There’s only so much we can do. I’ve spent the evening trying to rouse all those gals and guys I know online, all of them so _devoted to the cause_ but of course it’s all bullshit! When all is well we’re all one big Anarch world republic of whatever. Now shit’s hitting the fan and all they can do is sell cakes for dimes to send us. Fuck them! The only one who offered something remotely helpful PMed me telling me the fucker was a Tremere all along and is into some technoshit magic and can remotely hack CCTVs if I want her to. Can you believe that? I thought Tremere Anarchs didn’t exist? Well. I’m going to figure out a way to… try that out. I mean, we’re kinda desperate for help at this point, if she’s legit…”

He lets Damsel ramble about the technomancer and how she’d known her for years and had never guessed she was a Tremere. A part of him wants to climb to the roof and shout so hard the neighbors will call the police, and then he’ll shout some more until they drag him away toward the biggest Masquerade breach of his life.

The other just wants to lay down and pretend nothing happened.

At some point he manages to grumble it’s OK for Damsel to take care of her own things, and finds himself alone on the couch, watching the ceiling. Deb’s voice fills the room. News time. Nothing serious. Talks of music, the weather, the Lakers playing tomorrow and so many other meaningless things; promises of a easy life, for people whose sole cares are whether it will rain tomorrow.

He opens his eyes, feeling the shadow fall on him, almost like a touch – Sebastian’s silhouette, between Nines and the weak lamp. A dark shade with contours of gold and eyes like frost.

“ _Blood_.”

A single word, slipping between Deb’s, low and raw. Deprived of all the ventrue pomp.

“Sorry,” Nines answers. His tongue feels heavy, and all he can see is the frown and those blue, impossibly blue eyes. “We’re…” _…working on it_.

The sentence gets lost, somewhere between his brain and his lips.

He watches Sebastian walk away and can’t get his eyes to part from his back. He cannot even see the sweat stained clothes hanging on his shoulder – he knows the ventrue’s skin is greyish from starvation, but still, all he feels is gut gripping awe and _want_. To be close, closer to the man walking toward the fridge.

“Blood,” Sebastian repeats. Standing in the cold light of the open fridge, staring at the bags lined up on the empty shelves. He takes one, hands it to Nines – and Nines, with a start, sees himself standing right there. Like a moth called by a flame he followed, his veins pulling him close to the other vampire. “ **Drink**.”

Blood.

Blood Sebastian cannot drink.

Slowly, Nines’ mind works around – gears turning – until he gets it.

Blood.

That Sebastian _can_ drink.

 _Mine_.

It should scare him, but it doesn’t. He understands, somehow, that the vampire standing beside him is more Beast than man, its blue eyes set on him with inhumane fixity. A Beast on the hunt, walking still the very fine line between frenzy and self-discipline. Not Sebastian, or Sebastian deprived of everything but the sheer instinct to trap a prey he can consume.

He should feel afraid, really. A single misstep, the slightest hint that he will refuse to play along and the ventrue will snap – but for now, Nines feels like drowning in the creature’s eyes is the solace he sought. His mind quiets; all that matters is the blood in his mouth, until he drank so much he lets it drip from his lips. Sweet, so sweet – those cold eyes cannot leave Nines’ red coated lips and damn, damn what he would do for those eyes to look at him forever.

Sebastian inhales, and the sounds of it goes straight to Nines guts – the knowledge the ventrue doesn’t need air and seeks it anyway, just to breath his scent.

It’s maddening.

One step forward. Sebastian’s lips almost on Nines’, trembling with hunger. “ _I want_ ,” he growls, and pushes Nines in what is maybe the general direction of the couch. “ _You_.”

He should be afraid.

It’s not a declaration of love. It’s a monster stating he will devour him – and yet everything Nines can think about is yes, absolutely yes, everything you want, because he just overfed, because Sebastian is so amazingly _beautiful_ –

So he lets him push him on the couch. Lets him straddle his hips. Lets him stretch and lie atop him like some big cat, his paws tangling into his hair and grabbing his shoulders.

The eyes leave him bereft – and then fangs pierce his skin, a sharp, quick pain replaced by overwhelming pleasure. Nines lids close and flutter as a loud string of moans flows from his lips – _more, yes, yes, don’t stop, I am yours;_ he feels dizzy and impossibly aware. Of Sebastian’s body pressed against him, close, close, not close enough – he needs _more_ , more of this skin, more of everything.

Nines hears fabric rip. Feels his finger find flesh and roam the full expanses of Sebastian’s exposed back, slip under the pants to feel at his legs, tights, and more, he needs so much more! Hips bucking, swallowed by the waves of the Kiss, forgetting every chains and property, he moans and rubs himself and lets his hands go _everywhere_ to just bring Sebastian _closer_.

And then: nothing; all thoughts and sensations drowning in a last peak of blinding pleasure.

And then.

Emptiness. Almost.

Nines opens his eyes. Finds Sebastian looking at him, shirt half torn hanging from one pale shoulder. Looking at him like he doesn’t quite understand what he is doing here, straddling Nines’ hips with one of Nines’ hand still lost between skin and pants.

Puzzled, but in the dazed way of someone so exhausted, they don’t care to find an explanation.

Time freezes, and then it melts. Sebastian’s lips are still red – the tip of a tongue slips out to lick at the vitae and, in the fog where Nines is sailing, it seems like the most erotic sight in… forever. He watches this tongue move, pink and wet, lifts his arm to grab gently and pull his… lover? Down. Pull him down and kiss those lips, tongues meeting and sharing the taste of hot Brujah vitae.

It feels good.

So good, so encompassing, so –

It starts as a pulse.

A single string pinched by clawed fingers, in between two of Sebastian’s moans. A discordant note resonating in the emptiness of Nines’ veins.

Hunger.

Hunger beating louder, louder, louder with each second.

All it would take would be to sink his fangs in this white, soft neck – take back that vitae, let it flow sweet and sugary upon the tongue, _feed!_

He pushes Sebastian away. In no specific direction, it doesn’t matter, Nines just needs to get away – run to the fridge, throw away the remnants of the blood bags he consumed earlier, sink his fangs into one. And another one, and another one, cold, old blood filling his veins and drowning the drums of the Beast.

Overfeeding, one more time, to drown everything into a haze of blood and peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midly puzzled Sebastian be like "oh that was interesting". 
> 
> Like yeah it's dubcon but they both wanted it so the dove is not dead yet. Next chapter be fluff FOR ONCE yay. 
> 
> I hope you liked. Gonna sleep now!


	22. Book 1, Ch19: Let this night never end

He could stay like forever – in this moment of quiet, Beast fully sated, mind put to rest by the foggy remnants of the Kiss. Like a thick mist refusing to disperse for the first rays of down, the sensation lingers: heaviness in Nines’ limbs, his lids like curtains, some unnatural but comfortable warmth in his belly.

There is some part of him that is aware that, from an outside perspective, he looks like a drunk that collapsed in the middle of a crime zone. He is sitting on the cold kitchen floor, back against the dishwasher; a dozen of empty, shredded blood bags are littered around him, and the light of the fridge does nothing to give the scene good vibes.

Nines doesn’t care.

For the first time in a while, he just feels _good_. No matter that he looks ridiculous or that the situation has a sordid look to it; it’s not about whatever an observer may think. It’s just about him. Him gifting himself some sweet, lazy time, letting his mind consume the pleasant numbness while it lasts.

No wonder some humans become addicted to the sensation of the Kiss.

“ ** _Rodriguez!_** ”

He starts and blinks, momentarily blinded by the naked light bulb on the ceiling – and then manages to make out the blurred, and then much more precises traits of a mildly annoyed Sebastian Lacroix. Wet hair pulled back, clean clothes, and arms full of what look like blood-stained sheets.

“No need to yell,” Nines mumbles.

“You weren’t answering.”

“You got cleaned up?”

“You have been sitting on that floor for almost an hour. Yes, I cleaned up.” Damn, that’s one ventrue that sounds _pissed_. “We need to clean those,” Sebastian complains, a sharp gesture of the chin pointing to the ruined beddings in his arms.

“Okay.” But why is it that Sebastian need to bother him for that? It’s not urgent, it’s not even that important – though maybe it’s a reminder Sebastian spent two awful nights sweating himself into starvation, and Nines can get he would want to be rid of that.

But it’s not like he needed to get Nines out of his comfy post coital bubble.

“… so?” The Ventrue insists. Prince Lacroix’s annoyed voice, back in town to remind you he likes his desires to be fulfilled right now, right then.

“You don’t need my permission to clean stuffs.”

He would have liked to clean those hair, alright, but laundry isn’t Nines’ idea of how to finish a good night that started really awful – and that could be read as awful from start to end, but right now, he only wants to shove the most unpleasant implications of what happened and concentrate on how _pleasurable_ that was.

Still: Sebastian doesn’t move, his greyish eyes digging holes into Nines’ empty head.

“What?” Nines sighs. “I’m not doing that for you, okay? You want those sheets cleaned, well, clean them, I’m busy.”

“Busy _how_?”

Nines closes his eyes and answers with a most content purr: “Thinking about how nice a fuck that was.”

“ _Classy_.”

“My, aren’t you pissed.”

“How am I supposed not to be _aggravated_ with your Brujah blood burning inside me?”

Damn, Sebastian probably didn’t mean it that way, but those words are going straight to Nines’ cock – and that’s enough to buy him enough sympathy for him to get back on his feet and take one good look at the Ventrue.

Who suddenly looks a little embarrassed.

“… you do know how to do your own laundry, right?”

No answer.

Damn it’s so, so funny, Nines can’t keep a small “pffff” from erupting from his mouth – that turns into real laugher at the sigh of Sebastian’s vexed expression. Oh god this is so ridiculous, oh god it’s almost cute the way Sebastian pinches his lips into a line whenever he’s caught at being stupid. “… and you assume that since I’m poor, I know how to do it?”

“Do you?” Sebastian snaps. “I do not fancy losing more time on the petty matters of our bedsheets.”

“Sure.” It’s not like Nines can go back to sitting on the floor anyway – it lost a lot of its appeal, and the basement where the shared washing machines await is rather _cramped_. “Follow me, I’ll enlighten you.”

They go down the stairs in silence, down until they reach a small room. Nines tries to switch the light on – nothing. Looks like the lightbulb burnt and no one changed it yet. There’s a yellowish, weak beam falling on the soap vending machine from the small, street level window, and that’s all they’ll have to content with.

It looks either like a place where a serial killer is waiting to ambush them, or a good place to fuck away from the dorm roommates.

“So here is the local laundry kingdom,” Nines starts with theatrical grandiloquence. Three machines, one with a big OUT OF ORDER sign, a plastic stool, and the vending machines that offers an incredible choice of five soaps – which is, in Nines’ opinion, four too many. “Step one, chose your machine. Step two, put the sheets into the machine – wait, step two is actually to open the…”

“I am not an idiot.”

“Step four – since step three is to put the laundry in there, we chose some soap, step five is choosing a program that ends before dawn or someone may take our sheets out of the machine. If we’re unlucky they’ll still look like… that, and if whoever found them is really paranoid, we’ll have the cops showing up at our doors. Which is of course not the result we want.”

“Fine.”

“Right.” Nines takes a step back, settling against the wall with arms crossed. “Go on, I’m watching.”

“You’re –“

“You said you didn’t know how to do it, now teacher wants to see his student graduate.”

Enormous sigh. “You are so infuriating.” But Sebastian obeys anyway, opening the hatch with gestures that are a bit too quick and a bit too brutal for his usual self. “Here, it’s done.”

“A+ job.”

“ _Thank you_.” It sounds more like a fuck you, and it’s probably well deserved. “I need money for the soap.”

“Oh, sure.” Nines manages to dig out some change from his pockets. “That should be enough.”

“I need two dollars.”

“A dose? Are you kidding me?”

“For the good one.”

“Who cares, just pick the cheapest.”

“Cheap products are cheap for a reason – bad quality being one.”

“It’s just soap, Sebastian! What are you afraid of, that it’ll melt your fragile Ventrue skin?”

“I refuse to buy low quality products if we can afford the better ones! There’s a fifty cents difference, it’s nothing so stop being stingy!”

“It adds up,” Nines answers. Much more seriously.

That’s what his dad said, all the time – I can afford that one beer, I can afford betting that dollar on the races, I can afford that one coffee with the boys every day, and in the end it was his mother cutting corners everywhere so they could make it.

That’s what so many Anarchs said, until they discovered working at night is hard and sometimes funds dry up, and those fifty cents you wasted on soap whose sole quality is that it smells like strawberry may be the fifty cents you’ll need for something way more important.

“I’m the one with the cash anyway,” he adds. “You’ll buy us soap with gold dust once you remember where you hid your platinum card or what is it you used to pay for your blue blood way of life.”

“ _Fine_. There is no need to be disagreeable.”

“I’m not –“ Breathe in, breathe out. “Fine, okay, I’m sorry. Let’s go back in time, just buy your damn luxury soap. I’m not in the mood for a fight.”

“I wasn’t fighting, I said it was fine.”

“You said you wanted –“

“I don’t care, Nines, I don’t want to quarrel with you about soap of all things!”

“That’s exactly what I said!”

“I conceded first! I am not touching this machine!”

“This conversation is ridiculous, you know that?”

A huff.

“I know,” Sebastian finally admits. Embarrassed, but this time, he is looking down, hands in his pockets and balancing his weigh on one foot and then the other, looking like he is almost unable to stay still. “It is, indeed, rather absurd, I – I may be a little more, hm – irritable than my usual self.”

“Welcome in the everyday life of Brujahs, cursed to be passionate about everything, including…”

“… soap.”

“… usually not but well.” Nines shrugs. Maybe it’s time to stop behaving like an ass if he wants the evening to end nicely, so he grabs the sheets Sebastian put on the washing machine to put them in the machine instead, get the soap and then squint in the dark to pick the program. “I just don’t like to waste money. Sore subject.”

“I –“ Full stop. And then: “Nevermind. There is… another sore subject we have to talk about.”

“Do we have to?”

“I am sorry,” Sebastian continues, quickly, too quickly, as if trying to get it out before he changes his mind. “For what I did to you tonight. It was absolutely – it is not something I should have done, it was – I have no words.”

“Well I have some, if you’ll let me,” Nines cuts. Because this is not the declaration he wants.

This is a nice evening.

It’s alright.

It was, probably, a moral disaster – but it was exactly what he _wanted_. He never pictured himself as having rape fantasies, or perhaps he is just in utter denial, or perhaps Nines Rodriguez is so fed up with everything being difficult that, for once, he takes the easy road: it felt good, he had sex with someone he found attractive, still finds attractive, and what he wants now is no apology.

And this is why when Nines Rodriguez resumes with his own words, he backs them up with all the strength of his badly mastered Presence – a power a barely ever use, because he was never able to refine it into anything other than _look at me, I like you_. “You’re amazingly hot, you know that?”

“Nines –“

“Shh.” He closes the space between them. It wasn’t a big space to start with, and all it takes is three small steps, liquid like that of a big cat, to reach Sebastian – who straightens against the wall, looks up, in a way that bares his throat a little. “You are,” Nines repeats, in what is almost a growl, “beautiful, and…”

A hand, on the wall, just above the Ventrue’s shoulder.

He can feel (or imagine, perhaps) the warmth of this body, so close – he can almost hear his own angry blood pulsing through every veins.

Can remember what if felt to hold him.

To touch him everywhere.

To kiss that full, red mouth.

“… I want to live this night like there’ll be no other.”

“There’ll be –“

“No other,” Nines affirms. “No other night but this one.” He looks into those eyes, and right now, he knows what he would want to do with those last moments – to have those irises be blue with the strength of Sebastian’s Presence and bask in the powers of his blood. “Would you let me kiss you?”

He knows he looks threatening.

Taller, broader shoulders. Sebastian, back to the wall, looking up, the start of a bloodbond close to his heart – but what Nines wants is his consent. A _proof_ that beyond the Beast, the man burns for him, even if the flame may be that of a candle that’ll be blown tomorrow.

Right now, _right now_ , he wants to feel like Sebastian wants him back – so he wants to hear it, hear him say _yes, I will let you have me, I want you to have me, I will walk freely into your embrace_.

“I would not resist,” the Ventrue whispers.

Weak words.

Blue eyes, answering the call of Nines’ Presence.

Weak words, but a song of blood – a silent demand for Nines’ mouth to meet his own, for Nines’ hand to grab his waist, for their tongues to meet and then they whole bodies. Bound by limbs and blood and moans half drowned by the washing machine doing its job, forgotten in a corner, until Nines hoists his lover from the ground as if he weighted nothing – and feels like he would die of joy when Sebastian’s arms wound around his neck, and his legs lock behind his back. Letting himself be carried wherever his captor wants him to be.

“You are so beautiful,” Nines pants, letting Sebastian sit atop the machine that isn’t trembling like there’s an earthquake. “I want you whole.” He licks the sensitive skin behind the ear, and gets a repressed moan as a reward. “I want to kiss you all night.” Fingers combing through soft hair. “God Sebastian you are so perfect…”

Louder moan.

“You are so hot.”

Nails digging into Nines’ back.

“You’re doing so well.”

“ _Liar_.”

But when Nines slips a hand between them, where their too tight pants have been rubbing at each other, he finds his partner fully hard. “No, you are. You are so _good_. Is it my hand upon your cock that is making you sing so sweetly, Sebastian? Or could you just come hearing me telling you I how goddam hot you are?”

“I’m – I’m not –“

He lets out another loud moan as Nines’ hand brings their unclothed members against each other, whispering praises as his hands rubs them both – whispering how perfect, how hot, how amazing he feels, that he wants to be there with him forever; and with each new whispered kindness, Nines feels like he pressed one thousand kisses right where they had to land to make his lover come.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he breathes into Sebastian’s neck, once they are both done and yet, none of them seems in any hurry to leave the other’s arms. It just feels good, having Sebastian here, tucked against his chest, legs still half wrapped around Nines’. “Please, let this night never end, let me have you close forever.”

Sebastian stays silent – what is it he could have said? Even the most powerful of the princes can do nothing against time, and Nines doesn’t know what to hope for. For things to be the same tomorrow? Them being… something?

Better not think about it.

Better live only now, with this man in his arms, this man he can pretend he is madly in love with because, in that moment,

He is.


	23. Interlude 3: Do not sully your hands

**Bordeaux**  
1871

You hear the man come in long before you see him: the gears of the lock work inside the front door, then it closes with a quiet _thud_ ; the soles of riding boots make the stairs creak; and then a hand, that you picture gloved in black leather, turns the door handle of the two room appartement.

The young man says nothing as he closes the door behind him; young only by your standards, he looks at you with eyes at odd with his face: eyes that aged a few decades since Sébastien Lacroix left Bordeaux for Paris, three months ago.

He looks at you and says nothing. It is raining outside and his hair sticks to his face; his coat is dripping on the floor. Dip, dip, dip, _à l’unisson_ with the pendulum of a great cloak, counting the hours in a corner.

You stand. Walk slowly toward the younger Cainite. Stop close enough to touch. He watches you without any surprise; he knows exactly how this goes.

You look into his eyes.

It has been a while since you needed Insight to read Sébastien. You have peered into every corner of his mind, learned how to pinch every string, and what sound they make when you do so. He knows. And accepts – there is nothing he can do to fight you, and so he does not wonder if he should.

You take the coat off his shoulders. He stands still, waiting, as he will whenever his mood is dark and he wonders why, exactly, he should keep going. Waiting for you to handle him exactly the way he wants to be handled, the perfect balance between loving and restrained, just enough to lessen his thirst, never enough to make him too ashamed of himself. 

He will let it happen, and pretend he is not to blame.

“You may sit,” you order, because he will not grand himself the small kindness of doing so – and even so, he sits very straight, gloved hands neatly crossed, face unreadable, the perfect Ventrue puppet waiting for his strings to be pulled. “How was Paris?”

“I did my duty.”

“Splendidly, I heard.”

How cruel of you.

Sébastien Lacroix boasts about his Sabbat kills – never about Anarch slaughter. Maybe some part of himself yearns for their ideals. For a Sire that wouldn’t be allowed to treat him like a dog, for Elders that wouldn’t use him as a plaything.

But ah, here is the catch: Sébastien Lacroix is a survivor, and the Anarchs always lose. “Yes,” he says, flatly. “Messire de Morsac was satisfied.”

You kneel before him and he quiets. He always does, whenever you do that: how satisfying, that even after so many years, he cannot fully grasp the things you do. He stills, silent and unmoving as a statue, forgetting how to breath even, when your hands go to his thigh and then down. “ _Messire_ ,” he whispers, words half strangled. “My boots are filthy.”

“I know.”

“Do not sully your hands.”

You chuckle.

Your hands felt the touch of things so much filthier than mud – blood, entrails, various thaumaturgical ingredients, shadows no mortal flesh can brush without withering. Of course, Sébastien knows that, and it is not the _mud_ that he sees as a stain.

_A proper Ventrue shall never disrespect an Elder._

But a proper Ventrue shall not disobey an Elder either, and so he lets you take his boots off, ashamed no doubt that he _likes_ the feeling of your hands on his calves, traveling up to his thighs… “Your scarf,” you order.

He knows what to do: Psyché shall not behold the face of the secret lover who owns her heart; Sébastien is no innocent princess, and you are no sweet winged god, but the tale shall guide you both. So he obeys; unwounds the white linen from his throat and ties it around his head. By the time he finishes you have disposed of your mask.

You take his hands in yours, and then his gloves off his skin. “You are not dirty, Sébastien,” you say, because it is surely not the mud he thinks about when he speaks of sullying – murderer, he must think, dog of the Elders, butcher of vampires younger than he is who should have been his allies, and are not, because they are right and he was (still is) a slave too afraid to snap at the lash. Poor, poor boy, pretending someone your age can be cleaner than he is. “You have more value than you think.”

Your not-so-young treasure. He should not have lived to see his second decade as a vampire, not with what his sire did to him – and yet more that fifty years after his Embrace, he still functions, and you still do not know why. Why _him_? This repressed child, and not one of the dozens your clan birthed to no avail?

“You do not believe me.” You do not wait for an answer. He will give you none, because he would either have to lie or badmouth his Sire. “What shall I do to persuade you, Sébastien, that you are one of the most priceless gems of this earth?”

“ _Please_.” He snaps. He never does, but this night, he tenses, and his _please_ sounds like _stop_.

So you do.

You retreat, sitting on your heels, waiting.

He turns away, biting at a short nail with his teeth. Not enough to hurt himself. You watch with curiosity – that’s a gesture you never saw in him. True ventrues don’t bite their nails, after all.

“I… am sorry,” he finally says. “I shouldn’t have interrupted you.”

“Dear, I wish you could understand you are allowed to refuse me.”

“So you say.” But he does not believe you.

He should.

You _want_ him to refuse. To refuse the bonds of his sire, to refuse De Morsac, to refuse you – to stand for himself and use his voice to speak of his desires, instead of letting you fish them from his mind.

But he won’t.

He does not know how.

You put your hand back on his thigh. “Do you want me to stop? To go away?”

“No.”

You stare intently, eyes digging past the skin and bones of his skull – he does not know how to refuse, so you do not always trust his words as heralds of his will. He would never answer such a question truthfully, and so the responsibility is all yours – but tonight he does want you to stay. Wants you to stay and fill the terrible void calling him with… thing the ventrue cannot name, cannot imagine, as the ghosts of the Commune threaten to encircle him.

The greatest Anarch uprising since the French Revolution.

Nothing more than ashes in the Seine.

What Sébastien Lacroix cannot bear, tonight, is for you to give him kindness he doesn’t deserve and for you to refuse to give him the kindness he needs.

Poor thing.

Poor young, confused thing.

You pull him out of the armchair, scoop him into your arms and carry him to the bed. There are nights, when Sébastien is in a good mood, when he lets you pleasure him with your mouth and half undress him – but tonight, he would not bear the sight of his own face, let alone to feel like the debauched slut he is not. He tenses in your arms as if your embrace could break his bones ( _a proper Ventrue does not seek meaningless comfort_ ), and yet does not push you away ( _a proper Ventrue accepts the will of his Elders_ ). He should, he _should_ because he knows exactly what you are doing to him – when you hold him closer, when your hands comb through his hair or run up and down his back.

He shouldn’t cry again your shoulder.

Proper Ventrues don’t cry, even when they feel like their life is not worth being lived.

And yet, yet he does not push you away, because deep down, under the sick layers of shame and property and false morality, under De Vandreuil’s fake Childe, there is still _someone_ who wants to be held. Someone clawing away, trashing against the mask that was sewed to his face to be allowed to erupt in the most ugly, unventrue sobs.

You hold him tighter.

One night, the mask will crack, and you will know exactly what lays beneath.


	24. Book 1, Ch20: Good evening

Nines rolls in his sheets, arms stretching into the empty space by his side. For a little while he remains there, savoring the last foggy remnants of sleep; then he flexes his fingers, feeling the cold fabric between them, and open his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. To have Sebastian still there, looking at him with sweet eyes, ready to be drawn into Nines’ arms?

The Brujah turns in the sheets. Back to the mattress, eyes adjusting to the incomplete darkness of the bedchamber, he takes his time studying a stain on the ceiling. Maybe it’s best that Sebastian left the bed before he woke. Gives Nines time to collect his thoughts about… whatever happened the night before. Remember the mind-blowing waves of Presence, the warmth of the Kiss still radiating from his unhealed neck.

He should be regretting.

Probably.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he decides he will not, and dives into the light of the living room…

… where he finds no Sebastian. Only the sounds of the shower in the bathroom, and that of a motorcycle in the street.

So he waits. Shuffling through Sebastian’s books, turning the pages idly; he checks his phone and rubs his brow, thinking he will have to tell everyone about the alliance.

Second night on the job, and it’s going to be as unpleasant as the first.

He types his message anyway, reaching out to the Kindreds and coteries of the area. Meeting at the Last Round at midnight; and now he needs to find a way to make this disaster not sound like too much of a disaster, justify why he had to agree, he has to…

Start acting like a sleezy politician.

No. No, he shouldn’t find a way to make it sound like it was a good decision. It was a major fuck up and the sole reason why he shouldn’t immediately step down is that there was no _better_ decision available.

He flips the pages of Sebastian’s book – _The Modern History of France_ , a big yellowed tome whose chapters end with the cold war, and remembers that one time when a Camarilla Brujah that had followed the new Prince from New York went down the Last Round. Guy had decided enough was enough with the Camarilla – it had been a fun night laughing at his impersonations of the Prince’s pompous speeches.

 _Every problem, a grain of sand,_ the young Brujah clamored, standing on a box that had hosted bottles of beers before it graduated into an improvised stage, _and I inherit the desert! Woes on me, carrying the burden of leading this cesspit of chaos into civilization! Oh, the sacrifices I consent to suffer to improve the lots of those lost souls!_

Damsel had been cackling so hard she managed to be out of a breath she didn’t even need, and then Nines had been ranting about the usual – no need for a Prince, guys must get kicked so hard he will land back in N.Y City, _word words words_ that had never been followed by anything serious. He sees that now: how he waited for Lacroix to cross a line that Nines hadn’t even clearly defined in his own head, waited to be given a reason to stand as McNeil and Garcia and Fortier had decades ago, waited and then done nothing except walk of the road of the martyr.

It had sounded so funny, then. _Every problem a grain of sand_.

Nines feels like he’s already inherited a desert, and it’s only his second day on the job.

He starts as the door of the bathroom opens with a creak. Sebastian’s hair is short, freshly cut no doubts, and still wet from the shower; with the proper clothes, he would look like the Prince Lacroix they loved to mock and hate, and _that_ is not the person Nines wants to see tonight.

“Hey,” he begins. Suddenly, he regrets not having given some thoughts to what exactly he was going to tell Sebastian. So Nines mumbles: “Good evening.”

“Good evening,” Sebastian repeats, and _it’s not helping_. The Ventrue retreated behind a neutral mask; as if nothing happened, as if they weren’t two lovers waking up after falling asleep in the same bed, as if Nines arms weren’t wound around him when the sun went up.

Damn it, why is it that things are so easy with Callaghan – messy, but like every fiber of Nines’ body knows exactly what to do, but with Sebastian – Sebastian for whom he feels way more than lust, why is it that he is unable to move?

“… I have to talk with the others. The Anarchs of Downtown,” Nines mutters. That is _not_ what he meant to talk about, but what he wants to talk about is – he doesn’t know how to puts words on it. “They are not going to like that. I…” Failed. Failed them horribly. “Corte-Real is right. I don’t know how to do it. I’m not made for this.”

“For what?” Sebastian asks curtly. He goes to sit at the table, in front of Nines, where they cannot touch.

“Being a leader.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know!” Something nice and supportive, because this is what lovers are supposed to do, damnit! “You’ve been there, you know the feeling.”

“Indeed. I know the _feeling_. I do not remember the events but I remember how it _felt_. What do you want, Nines? For me to give you advices? I didn’t know you valued me as a leader.”

“What’s your problem?” They were _fine_.

A few hours ago.

And a few hours before that, they hadn’t been – and Nines is probably fooling himself. What did he expect, exactly?

“I like you, you know,” Nines blurts out. “I don’t know exactly why, but I do. What happened yesterday…”

“Stop.” Sebastian looks at his nails, then back up. Eyes cold as steel. “We both know this is not true.”

“What –“

But Sebastian is faster, and for once he is the one raising his voice to drown Nines’: “You do not like _me_. You only like _parts_ of me. This is not the kind of relationships I want. My apologies, Nines, but I believe we both deserve better than this.”

“Your – I don’t want your fucking _apologies_!” Nines stands, and then he wonders why. He feels silly, like a child throwing a tantrum because his candy was kept away; but he is not a child, and he hates that he is so damn quick to jump these nights. So he tries to calm himself, tries to see just how to explain that Sebastian is wrong. “Look, I know we aren’t Hollywood romance material, but I’m not asking for you hand.”

Sebastian’s eyes go back to his nails, and for a while he remains silent, letting the lull stretch until it becomes uncomfortable.

When he finally decides to answer, it is quite, a Sebastian voice rather than a Lacroix snappy response. “I know. This is why I do not want to go on with this.”

“What, because I can’t promise you we’ll last?”

“Yes. I am not stupid, I know love is never eternal for our kind,” Sebastian says, quietly, and yet with the certainty of someone who does not doubt he walks on the right path. “But I need to feel like we want to be that. Eternal. I am not searching for a companion, so I do not see the point of settling for anything less than… call it the fabric of tales and sappy stories, I do not care. I want love or nothing, and I want it to be beautiful.”

Nines blinks.

Of all the reasons, all the reasons he could have pictured for Lacroix refusing – that their fling isn’t rosy enough wasn’t the one. “You’re kidding me.”

Sebastian doesn’t answer.

He just lifts his gaze and stares.

“Look, Sebastian. This is _stupid_. We’ve got the Sabbat at our doorstep, you can’t even remember what you did last month, we’re probably both going to die soon – who cares about what happens in ten years? Don’t you think we should enjoy what we have now?”

“What we have?” A short, sad laugh. “You locking me up in a box? Or I, feeding by force? I do not remember facts; I remember feelings. I remember that you _hated_ me.”

“You were different!”

“I was still myself!” Sebastian retorts, with a hint of anger that grows into more. “I was myself, way more than I am now! Do you think I do not yearn to reclaim my memories? My identity? If you hated me then, Nines, what will you think of me once I remember who I am? Or do you hope that I never will? Is that how it is? That the price of your… love, is me accepting that my own self does not matter? _Please_. All I can remember now is people who treated me like the lowliest of dog, but at some point in my life I learnt that I deserve – I deserve _more_!” Anger, yes, and, at the end, a hint of pride. “I deserve to be treated well, do you understand? I deserve to be with someone who will treat me like I am the most precious being in the world! And it is _my right_ to refuse to settle for less!”

It is ridiculous.

Utterly ridiculous.

That Nines is standing there, hands closed into fists feeling like – like everything Sebastian said is just true.

They suck.

And whatever he feels (whatever it is, he doesn’t know), is clearly not good enough for what Sebastian wants.

And is right to want, in a way. Maybe it is Nines who has a problem – for being alright with what happened with Callaghan, or because he feels that this ridiculous mess in the basement meant anything. Who in his right mind would decide _this_ is the start of something?

The silence is making it worst. So much worst.

Because he’s never been able to look that far. Maybe this is the reason why he is so reactive to everything, leading only by resisting; always complaining, and with too few proposals. Because Armando Rodriguez doesn’t know how to project; and how he is supposed to wonder if he’ll want to be by Sebastian’s side in… a year? Ten? Just how long must he plan for Sebastian to feel it’s _enough_?

It is unfair.

But it’s not his choice to make. Nines forces his hands to relax, exhales noisily and looks away. Well, Nines Rodriguez deserves better than to force himself upon someone who believes he doesn’t like or love or whatever well enough. Sebastian is right, it was all – it wasn’t anything good anyway.

“Fine.”

He swallows.

“I have places to be,” he says, because he needs to say something to get himself out of this stifling flat. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

“Nines –“

“Goodnight.”

Some would say it is childish, to just walk away from such a conversation.

Well if it is, Nines is past caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidayyyyyyyyyys!  
> And here is a sad chapter for my first free weekend lol, I hope you liked it! Will those boys manage to get together at some point? Who knows!


	25. Book 1, Ch21: Nice to meet you, Sforza

He should not be doing this – but those words sound like a song he keeps singing and never heeds, and Nines decides to let it sink. Deep, so very deep under the surface of his thoughts.

“Want to go to a party?”

Nines is slow to answer. He should be doing one thousand things, but he feels mostly exhausted – no matter that the meeting with the Downtown Anarchs went a lot better than he thought, no matter that he has decided Sebastian wasn’t worth being depressed over; no matter that he called the wrong person again to solve this.

No matter that he’s laying on his back, eyes closed, refusing the let the afterglow of the Kiss dissipate.

It’s not good.

He has known so many humans who got addicted to the feeling – he should ensure that won’t happen again, or he’ll end up exactly like them, a mindless blood doll running after his fix.

“Hey, you sleeping?”

“No,” Nines groans. “What kind of party?”

He feels the mattress sink and wonders if Callaghan will join him; but no. Not his kind of reactions. That’s the second time Nines falls in bed with the Toreador and, exactly like the first time, the other man looks way too energized to stay in bed – most unlike Sebastian the night before.

“Camarilla party, of course, what do you think? One of the war archons arrived yesterday, got the red tape settled earlier tonight, and his team is chilling in some pub, getting acquainted with everyone.”

“Why would I want to go? Sounds like the antechamber of hell.” As if Walstein wasn’t enough of a nuisance! “What make you think I want to spend any more time than I have to with capes?”

Callaghan laughs, sounding more amused than angry. “Ah, I’m not a cape anymore then?” Another chuckle, but when he resumes, his voice grows serious. “The archon’s name is Cesare Sforza, and he was Lacroix’ _servire_ during the Siege of New York in the 90s. I just thought you’d like…”

“The one from the tapes?” Nines interrupts. He feels very awake, suddenly, and remembers too well the tape labelled _CS voice mail_ : _just ask me, Messire, and I shall come to L.A; should you need help, my sword shall be yours again._ “ _CS_?”

“The one and only.”

“Right.” Nines rolls from the bed and begins the embarrassing game of trying to find his clothes, wherever he discarded them. “He knows what happened to Lacroix?”

“He asked if you still had him.”

“You told him?”

“What did you want me to say?” Callaghan answers with a shrug. “This guy is _nasty_ , Nines –“

“So you’re trying to trick me into walking in a pub where he’s having fun with all his crew?”

The Toreador sighs: “I am not _tricking_ you, damnit! I just think you should meet him and set things straight, before someone else manages to persuade him you’ve been mistreating his former boss. Don’t you think Sforza could be a solution to all of your problems and mine? Just let him have Lacroix, you’ll be rid of a blotch on your anarch name, Sforza gets his Ventrue back, everyone’ll be happy, problem solved.”

Except Nines doesn’t want to be rid of Lacroix – or didn’t want to, yesterday night, when he had him in his arms and fell asleep with fingers combing into soft blond hair.

Tonight?

Tonight – maybe Callaghan is right, and Nines should do everyone a favor and stop trying.

“Right.” Idea’s probably to get him in troubles, but he has too much on his mind, and he’d rather know what Sforza is up to before the novelty fades and he becomes another weight. “Let’s go then – once I find my missing shoe, where the fuck is that thing?”

***

The Solstice is the kind of places Nines wouldn’t walk in on his own – brand new front, big bouncers waiting at the door and clients looking like they wear a working man’s salary on their back to be allowed in. Callaghan skips the line straight to the VIP entrance with the swagger of someone who always hunts in places like this; the two men stop in front of a group of young women plastered with expensive brands labels. They giggle when the Irishman gives them a wink; Nines ignores them.

The club is dark and filled with music: a live rendition of Jace Everett’s _That’s the kind of love I’m in_ backed by a single well played guitar, the voice low and heavy with so much slut energy half the women (and a few men) look entranced.

_An' nobody's ever wanted nobody  
The way I want you_

That’s a voice Nines knows, somewhat – except it wasn’t trying to make everyone wet in Lacroix’s tapes.

_An' there's somethin' 'bout every little thing about you  
There's nothin' I wouldn't do_

Nines follows Callaghan toward the VIP lounge where a few elegant and slightly creepy men and women sit quietly, glasses way too full on the tables between them. 

_Want to stand for you, fall for you, live for you, die for you  
Don't want you out from under my skin_

“That’s Sforza on the stage?”

_'Cause that's the kinda love I'm in  
That's the kinda love I'm in_

No answer.

_I can't turn it off  
Why would I if I could?_

“Hey!” Nines grabs Callaghan’s arm, stopping him on his track – because it’s annoying enough that he’s letting himself be dragged in this place with polished bronze, leather couches and overpriced cheese sticks and fries, and he can’t bear to be ignored that easily. “Is that –“

“Will you fucking shup up and let me listen?” Callaghan retorts with a snarl, turning so fast he slips from Nines grasp. Eyes glazed and wide, he spits: “Show some fucking _respect_!”

_Man, I love the thought_

What the –

_Of you on my mind for good_

Oh.

Alright.

Fucking Toreador is _trancing_ – to what is admittedly a pretty good performance, but Nines somehow never got used to how Toreador sometimes flip from perfectly steady people to angry moths trying to grab their flame with bare hands.

 _And bearin' my soul with the truth like this_  
Might be steppin' out there, too far on a limb  
But that's the kinda love I'm in

Nines lets the _servire_ go with a smirk. Good to know that for once he’s not the one behaving like a dumb vampire led by his Beast, and Callaghan is probably not in trouble, following the siren voice of one of his bosses to the lounge, where a few Kindred share the same glazed eyes and slightly idiotic smiles – as if they were gorging themselves with the sweetest vitae rather than sounds.

There are, however, others that are way more aware than the entranced Toreadors.

A man that wouldn’t have looked awkward in the Last Round stands. Three days beard, old clothes repaired countless times, appraising glare: that one is not aggressive, but he’s aware enough that trouble may arise.

With so many capes in one place, and Nines all alone?

Not likely.

“M. Rodriguez?” the stranger asks, hands still deep in his pockets. He tilts his head just an inch. “Now, that’s unexpected.”

“I’m full of surprises. You are?”

“Called Lev.” The man extends a hand. “Sforza will want to see you.”

“Should I be flattered?”

Lev shrugs. “Your call.” He steps aside to let Callaghan crash on one of the leather couches and then perches himself atop a stool. “We all heard about you. Good and bad things.”

“What a surprise. Wasn’t expecting any _good_ things.”

“Give us some credit.” Lev fishes a cigarette from a pocket, lights it even as it draws annoyed glares from his companions; offers one to Nines, who refuses with a nod. “Not all of us despise your kind, hell, if the Anarchs could actually pack a punch against the Sabbat outside of their own turf…” Another shrug, a long inhalation, and the cammie blows a long cloud of smoke. “Your ideas aren’t my problem anyway. I don’t do politics, I just drive. Well. The boss…” Breath in, out, cloud. “He’ll see you as soon as he’s done with the show.”

“Sure.” 

Nines takes another nearby stool. Lev doesn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, and Nines guesses, by his lack of pomp, that he’s either Brujah or Gangrel.

Not so the man on the stage. Somewhere between thirty and forty, dark hair and beard trying to pretend they are casual, but too beautifully messy to be legit; expensive suit pants, tie on but untied, shirt unbuttoned at the top and rolled up sleeves revealing a pretty watch. The man is not naturally beautiful; his moves, his voice, the smoldering eyes turn him into something else, as long as the song lasts.

Sforza’s finishes cover with a dying voice that births a few sighs in the crowd. He hands his guitar over to one nameless assistant, rises from his chair and makes his shoulders roll; then he looks down, staring straight at Nines, and for a split second, it seems like a deadly frost crawls on the Brujah’s back. As if _something_ in those eyes was the promise of something empty and cold, whispering, _clinging_ to his skin like goosebumps.

The archon steps down, and Nines straightens.

Sforza is not Walstein. He walks with the easy swagger of a great cat on the hunt, stops too close; he’s of a height with Nines, and that leaves them staring straight at the other, neither wanting to look lesser than the alpha male in the room.

“Rodriguez.” The deep voice still has this profound quality, but the _seduction_ is gone. It’s matter of fact now, neither warm nor cold.

Nines can play that game. “ _Sforza_.” He may not be a singer, but he knows how to put some Hollywood western vibes unto his tongue. “Heard you were searching for me.”

“I know where the Last Round is,” the archon answers, leaving untold the end of the sentence: _if I had been searching, I would have found you easily enough_. Italian name, east coat American accent. Either Embraced in the States, or lived there long enough not be some lost euro trash with no grasp of the customs. “My thanks.”

“For?”

“Sparing me the waste of time of visiting you there. I fear the music is not to my tastes.” No smirk, no smile; Nines wonder if the jab is supposed to scare him. _I’ve been there already, I know you_. Well, it’s not that hard. The Last Round is an open secret, with an open door. What is more puzzling is that Sforza is supposed to have arrived _yesterday_. “Please, follow me. The matter I wish to discuss doesn’t fit the setting.”

“Sure.” If Sforza wants to murder him, well: with a dozen of Camarilla soldiers around him, he can, and it’s not like Nines expected everything else when he walked straight into this trap.

He throws a last look at Callaghan; catches him blinking away the trance with a slightly embarrassed look on his face, but it’s too late for the Toreador to intrude.

Nines half expected Sforza to privatize the toilets, but not: somehow, the archon commandeered what looks like a staff office, and sits in the manager’s chair like he owns it. Pretty good impression, sure, but he’s not the first rich asshole Nines had to deal with. “Care to tell me what this all about?”

“M. Lacroix.”

“Funny how all of you want to speak about _him_.”

“Is he safe and sound?”

“Why should I tell you?”

It’s a trick of the light, surely – like cat’s eyes reflecting light, except Sforza’s reflect shadows instead, and those cold fingers scratch at Nines’ spine; then the feeling is gone, but the Brujah’s Beast wakes with a worried snarl.

That’s when he notices…

A fancy mirror, sitting on sideboard, reflecting nothing but the leather chair, the desk, and a hazy shape that _may_ belong to a human being.

Fast as the realization, Nines’ gun ends up in his hand, not aimed yet but… “You’re a –“

“Lasombra?” Eyebrow raised, mild amusement. “Did your friend Callaghan forget to warn you between two blowjobs, or was his mouth too full for that?”

A smirk.

 _Fuck_.

“Didn’t know your kind were into gossips.”

“My _kind_.” The smirk disappears, and Sforza tilts his head. “I am not aware of such gossips, but Callaghan’s promiscuity is no secret. The guess was easy; now, M. Rodriguez, your nightly adventures with the _servire_ are of no interests to me. Would you please be courteous enough to holster that weapon?”

“No.” The only thing that is rumored to be worst than Ventrues are Lasombra; same suit, no pretense of decency to fill the expensive Italian shoes. “What the fuck do you want with Lacroix anyway? Your side wanted to be rid of him.”

“My _side_.” Sforza stands, hands clasped in the back. “Clan stereotypes, and now, you see nothing but the Camarilla – I would love to express disappointment, but it seems you learnt nothing those past years.”

“Are we acquainted?” He’d remember.

Or maybe not.

There are always people coming and going in L.A, and the rants of the Anarchs are open – it wouldn’t be that hard for a Camarilla spy to attend one or two of those. “You came to L.A before?”

“A few years back. Your speeches against the new Prince of the city were _enlightening_. Now, M. Rodriguez, before I tire of asking you: is M. Lacroix safe, or should I assume you made true of your threats and murdered him?”

“ _Bullshit!_ You want to know who the real threat to Lacroix is?” Nines all but growls because damn, he has been so confused about all of this – and he can’t bear the idea of hurting Sebastian anymore, and having a fucking _Lasombra_ of all people accuse him when the fucking Camarilla is to blame! “ _Walstein_! No, your boss is not _well_ – and that’s _her_ fault, not mine! She’s the one who fried his brain and she’s the one who wants him back to complete the execution! Want to play big bad shadow boss somewhere? Go slap some bitches from your own side!”

His outburst is followed by nothing but silence, Sforza’s dark stare digging into Nines’ as if he could read truths and lies in his eyes – can he? Lasombras are known for shadows and strength, but Nines cannot pretend he’s an expect. Corte-Real could read him like a book.

No way he’s backing down. _No way_. Nines was the one who was wronged, the one who tries to right a situation that should never have been his to fix. _Hell_ if he’s going to let that guy insult him!

“Is M. Lacroix your prisoner?” Sforza finally asks. He’s got the immobility of a statue, eyes unmoving, nothing but his mouth forming words.

Forming a question Nines doesn’t have an easy answer for.

He breathes in and tries to unclench his fingers from the handle of his gun, wonders if Sforza’s friends heard the outburst. There were enough Toreadors in there to ensure at least one of them would have. Shit. How long until one of them comes knocking?

And if they don’t…

If they don’t, it means Sforza packs enough of a punch that he doesn’t fear Nines at all.

_Come on. He was only Lacroix’s servire in New York, not the actual archon._

Yes.

And the Sheriff had been way scarier that Lacroix himself, and still his pet – maybe Sebastian’s hobby used to be “pick and collect the dirtiest Kindreds available”, and Sforza would be bad enough to be named Archon.

“No,” Nines answers. Truthfully. Or – no. To be clearer with himself, that’s what he wishes. To convince himself that Sebastian stays with him, not because he’s a prisoner but because…

What for?

“No,” Nines repeats. “He’s not my prisoner.”

“There is no need, then, for both of us to continue this conversation,” Sforza says, hands picking an envelope from his pocket – folded in two, but closed by a seal of dark wax of all things. “Would you please give this to M. Lacroix?”

“Who do you think I am, your local postman?”

“Funny.” It sounds like it’s not, and Sforza still has this casual murderous look that has Nines wondering what would have happened if Sebastian hadn’t been safe and if he’d said: _yes, he’s my prisoner, what are you going to do about that?_ “I won’t be keeping you.”

“Thanks.” The letter crumples in Nines’ pocket “T’was a pleasure.”

He leaves the office and, no surprise – there’s a Kindred waiting, leaning “casually” against the wall, Asian looking, French sounding when she throws him a curt greeting, and by how close her skin her Beast feels, Nines guesses _that one_ must be in the slaughtering business. He feels her eyes following him until he mingles in the crowd of unaware party goers.

The feel of Sforza dark eyes, on the other hand – that is a stain that won’t go that easily. 

***

_**#voicemail CS 2004#** _

_The voice belongs to a single man, speaking in French, using formal “you” all along._

_Cesare Sforza: Good evening, M. Lacroix._

_Cesare Sforza: Or am I allowed to be discourteous? We have pushed back the latest assault of Milan with great success. As Archon and Ancilla, now wearing the laurels of victory, am I to be allowed to call you Sebastian for a night?_

_Cesare Sforza: I can picture your annoyance; I shall ask you to imagine mine. I have been trying to reach you for weeks now. I do know you are a busy man, nonetheless this is, truly, bordering on impolite – which is why I will grant myself the liberty to be as discourteous as you are._

_Cesare Sforza: Listen, Sebastian._

_Cesare Sforza: This damned city does not deserve you._

_Cesare Sforza: This cesspit is not worth you dying on this hill or whatever it is you are doing there._

_Cesare Sforza: You know where I am. You know I owe you my life and that of my Childe. You need only call me and I shall stand by your side one more time._

_Cesare Sforza: So pick up your damn phone, Sebastian… and let me help you while I still can._

_Cesare Sforza: You still have friends._

_…_

_Cesare Sforza: Do not forget we are here for you._

…

Cesare Sforza: Good night.

Cesare Sforza: Call me.

…

…

…


	26. Book 1, Ch22: It's all for the best

Sebastian isn’t at the flat when Nines arrives.

For a moment he believes the Ventrue just left – but his books are all over the table, not even closed, with pens scattered on sheets of paper; nothing like Sebastian’s usual tidiness. The clothes are all there, too, and after circling in the room for a while, Nines finally picks the very obvious note left right by the door: _Your friend delivered the blood._ _I went out for a walk, S._

He fights the spark of anger, smothers it down as soon as he feels it rise. Sebastian is _not_ his prisoner; Nines just said so to Sforza, so Sebastian can leave and go wherever he wants to go. He’s a grown boy, isn’t he? Whatever happens is on his head.

And yet, Nines finds himself going out anyway. He doesn’t quite know if he just wants to find Sebastian before something happens or if the living room just feels unbearably empty without him. As if! It’s not like he stands a good chance to find him, running after a single guy who left God knows when, and it’s so ridiculous – it would be simpler to sit on the couch and wait for him to be home.

Unmoving.

In the stifling silence, pretending maybe to fill it with the dumb night show airing on TV.

He leaves, gets out, and stops only in the street, under the gleeful stares of the dancing women fresco; picks a direction, at random: left, right; he picks left and, hands burying deep in his pockets, feels his fingers digging into his palms. Why is he doing this? Sebastian is _not a prisoner_. Fucker can go wherever he wants, right? Whenever he wants? Grown man. And Nines should feel so damned pissed that he’s left with just a note. He shouldn’t even care about what happen to the asshole, considering how little Sebastian cares about him.

He stops.

Nines is still in clear view of the flat – can recognize one of the windows from here, and the light he forgot to switch off when he rushed out. A toddler’s walk, and that’s how far his not-prisonner went: to a small derelict square with broken bench and a playground with more rust than paint.

Nines forces his fingers to unlock, his brow to relax. Suddenly, all he can feel is the crumpled letter against his right hand. The seal of black wax digging into the back.

He breathes in. A needless gesture; breathes out, grey eyes meeting with Sebastian’s. Nines tries not to look bothered by all of this. It was just a walk, a walk a mother hen would allow to her chicks; yet when Nines puts one foot forward and then another, he feels so _ridiculously_ stiff.

He just hates it. This whole situation that makes him behave like a fucking creep. How bad he deals with all of this.

He stops a few steps away from Sebastian, under the sole lamppost in the whole playground. There’re flies circling around the yellow globe; from time to time one hits the glass, _thud, thud, thud_. The ventrue elected to sit on one of the remaining swings, foot pushing himself with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Not enough to call that swinging, just enough to make this a bit eerie.

The ventrue stares.

And says nothing; does nothing, except going back and forth; barely the length of a hand each time he does so.

“I’m not going to – “ Nines starts. Be angry? Disappointed? Act like an asshole? “You haven’t gone far.”

“No,” Sebastian answers with a flat voice and unblinking eyes. “I was going to. Then I wondered what would happen, should my memories fail me on the way back. It sounded like a laughable way to die.”

“True. Why the swing, though?”

“Someone vomited on the sole bench that isn’t broken.”

“Nice.” So _that_ was where the rancid smell came from.

The swing creaks under Nines’ weight when he sits; thankfully, nothing breaks.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits, until he feels like there is no point. Sebastian doesn’t look like he is in the mood to start some small talk, and Nines… well, neither does Nines, but he hates this painfully embarrassing silence. “I’ve…” …fucked with Callaghan. Again. Maybe he should tell Sebastian, just to make him feel as miserable as Nines feels right now, as miserable as Nines felt when he called the Toreador.

He’s better than that.

And it isn’t Sebastian’s fault, really, if they don’t fit. A relationship needs two people, you can’t force anyone to love, it would be such a pathetic thing to do, wouldn’t it? “I’ve met with a guy called Sforza, tonight. High Justice archon. Says you know him.” Says you trust him, behaves like he’ll save you from the big bad Brujah thug. “That’s true?”

 _Thud, thud, thud_. The flies collide with the lamp, the swing creaks, and finally, Sebastia’s voice joins the creepy chorus. “I suppose. I feel like I… trust him. And I remember…” He frowns, freezes, and then resumes, pushing with his foot, back into that repetitive, hypnotic swinging motion. “What I remember, one doesn’t share easily. About his life. There were… _things_ , in his past, that… resonated with mine.”

“Such as?”

 _Thud, thud, thud_ – the suicidal dance of the flies is covered, temporarily, by a noisy motorcycle in a nearby street.

Sebastian waits until the noise dies. Because it bothered him or because he needed time to collect his thoughts, only he knows. “Such as things he should tell you himself.”

“Right.” That’s fair. Nines shouldn’t have tried to dig, even with the letter and its ridiculous black seal feeling like it weights ten pounds in his pocket. “He wanted to know if you were okay.”

“I’m not,” Sebastian answers. Not that it seems to bother him, as if he were half sedated. “I am only pretending I am.”

“Well, he looked like he was ready to bite my head off if I told him that, so I didn’t. You’re better than you were, take comfort in that.”

“I will.” Spoken as if to mean: _I certainly will not, but this is what you want to hear_.

“He gave me a letter. For you.”

Sebastian stills. “… what does it say?”

“I did not read it.” He thought of reading it, of throwing it in a bin or burning it, but he didn’t, because Nines is trying to do this well – no matter the many times he failed, those aren’t excuses to stop trying.

“I see. I suppose I should get to it then.” Like a condemned man, walking the green line; the Ventrue extends a hand, and Nines is almost embarrassed that the letter is so crumpled. As if he did it on purpose – which is not really the case, not _entirely_.

Sebastian stares at the seal. It’s a pretentious thing: a huge serpent with a crown, eating a screaming man, a sword drawn over them as if it were mean to smite them both.

“… your friend’s got bad tastes for those things,” Nines tries to joke. Who the _hell_ goes for man-eating monsters for a personal sigil? “Is that some edgy Lasombra aesthetic?”

“That’s Prince or Archbishop Visconti of Milan’s sigil,” Sebastian answers flatly. He breaks the seal, gets the letter out of its fancy envelope and smooths it on his knees. “The _man-eating monster_. The sword is Sforza’s.”

“The sword that smites the monster?”

“Something like that.” Sebastian gives up the letter-flattening; his irises redden, and then get an unsettling orange glow when the yellow light reflects against them. At first he reads silently; then he starts mouthing words Nines cannot understand and, finally, speaks them aloud: “… pris les mesures nécessaires pour vous procurer un refuge dans une ville camariste, où votre rang pourra être rétabli à la hauteur de vos services passés…”

He finishes reading and lets the letter fall on his knees, biting at his lips and looking like he would cry if he did not have some dignity left. Nines almost reaches out to take his hand – but their swings are a bit too far, and with how they started their night, he’s positive Sebastian won’t like the gesture anyway.

“… so? What did the man-eating monster slayer have to say?”

The Ventrue exhales a shaky breath. “He’s saving me.” He brings the letter up, closer to his face, as if the thing needed a reread. “ _I have taken steps to secure your pardon, as well as a warm welcome in a proper Camarilla city, where you shall come again into a status befitting your achievements and station._ You see?” Sebastian lets out a small laugh, that sounds half mad, half joyful. “He’s giving me my _life_ back! _They’ll have me back!_ Thanks God they’ll have me back!”

Back.

In the Camarilla.

And that, _that_ is the thing that has Lacroix crying tears of joy. That he’ll be allowed back into the fucked-up system that fucked him up and fucked everyone up and _will keep on fucking everyone up_.

What was Nines expecting? That Lacroix wouldn’t switch back to being a system dog as soon as his bosses offered him another collar? That Nines could, somehow, save him from what Lacroix became, long before Nines was even born?

But the Ventrue is laughing, exhilarated, head thrown back and looking so damn _relieved_ at the idea he’ll start whoring again for his Elders –

Maybe Sebastian was right.

Maybe they were never meant to be, and it’s all for the best.


	27. Book 1, Ch23: My sole safe option

From Me: Hey Dam

From Me: Good news

From Damsel: Oy

From Me: L going back 2 the Cam

From Damsel: YASSSS

From Damsel: U free <3

From Damsel: Boi wat a relief

From Damsel: 1 burden less for U 😊

From Me: Yes

From Damsel: We need 2 celebrate !!!!!!!!

From Damsel : !!!!!!

From Damsel: Im so relieved its done

From Damsel: 😊 😊 😊

From Me: sure 😉

From Me: U right I hav 2 much 2 do

From Me: Im not a cammie babysitter OK

From Me: See U @ the LR

***

“You done?” Nines asks as he finishes typing. Damsel is right – he should be happy someone else will deal with Sebastian and yes, that’s one weight Sforza is taking from his shoulder.

It’s going to be _fine_.

“I think so. My hair looks –“

“Boring as hell,” Nines interrupts him. “You look exactly like you used to when you were the unsufferable Prince of L.A.” Minus the obnoxious hair gel that gave him such a nice plastic look.

“I know you like me to look like some high school punk,” Sebastian complains, “but you know I don’t share your opinion. I can’t do anything about the clothes; I can at least mind the haircut.”

“Sorry I don’t own luxury suits fitting your specific measurements.”

Sebastian sets down the plastic comb so quickly it hits the sink with a loud thud and bounces on the floor. He mutters a curse and then snaps: “Do you have to be like this? See, this is exactly what I was complaining about!” His voice goes up in a very annoying way; the usual Lacroix _being fed up with Anarchs shenanigans_ attitude, that sounds more like a petulant teenager than a mature leader. “I am grateful you lent me those clothes, _however_ , I don’t think it’s that hard to understand that they don’t fit me considering I have to roll them over my ankles _twice_ not to trip! I’d like to look like the M. Lacroix Sforza knows and not like your little brother, is that such a _terrible_ thing to want?”

Oh fuck, Nines can’t _bear_ it – not only the whining, because he can’t take it seriously, but this whole _drama_. Because if Sforza cares about such stupid things, then he doesn’t deserve to get Sebastian back, period.

On the other hand, that may just be one bout of understandable dread; Sforza remembers Sebastian, and Sebastian doesn’t remember any of them; talk about power imbalance there. Makes Nines fangs itch, knowing just how easily the Lasombra could be playing them for his own self interests.

Makes his fangs itch, and makes him so damn aggravated that he’s not giving up on this Ventrue asshole. Nothing forces Sebastian to leave; Nines certainly didn’t, despite Sebastian being very clear that he wanted nothing to do with him. He should just tell him to shut up, be a man and stop whining, but that would probably make him go on another high-pitched rant.

So Nines does what big brother Nines did whenever one of the stupid little siblings got themselves all worked up on stuffs as silly as clothes that don’t fit: deescalate with a joke. “My little brother would be way more handsome than you are, Ventrue,” Nines hears himself say.

Sebastian glares.

“…And he would have been rolling the pants _three times_ at the ankles.”

Sebastian glares, lips pinched, and then looks away and starts to tidy the place. Setting the orange, plastic comb back into the green, plastic glass, gathering the hairs he cut to throw them away with gestures that are a little too sharp to be serene.

So when Nines resumes, he sounds way more serious. “You know, if Sforza actually cares about the clothes you wear, he can go fuck himself.”

“ _I_ care,” Sebastian hisses. He stands and his grey eyes meet their twins in the mirror; he stares, and Nines can only guess what thoughts circle into his head: does he recognize himself? _Which_ himself? Lacroix, Prince of Los Angeles, or a much younger person that ceased to exist ages ago? “… he wants his… _friend_ back, Nines. I was… I was a Ventrue, older than he was, more established. What if I cannot be this person anymore?”

“You won’t.” Period. “But if he is your friend, he will protect you anyway. Hell, you think Damsel and Skelter would let me down if what happened to you happened to me? Never! They’d be there for me, I would be there for them. If Sforza cannot do that you come right back. I may not be good for you but I’ll –“

“Nines,” Sebastian interrupts him. “Please. Do not – you misunderstand me.” He looks down, which means he’s now staring at the sink and pretending it’s _fascinating_. “You have done, considering the situation, you have – you have been _better_ than anyone had any right to ask. Better than I deserved. It’s just – I don’t want to mislead you.”

“You’re allowed not to want me,” Nines mumbles. Because he’s not a creep and because that’s true, relationships require the consent of two grown adults to work. “And I’m allowed to be salty about that, right? Anyone would be, just don’t be a dick and let me get used to the situation.”

Silence.

One of those long, embarrassed silence, when Sebastian walls himself in stillness until he manages to speak.

Nines switches his weight – left foot, right foot. He’s itching to move. He never liked to be still, never liked those long silences.

“I do have feelings for you, you know,” Sebastian finally admits. Eyes never going up, still lost somewhere beyond the bathroom walls. “A lifetime ago I would have said I loved you. But I have loved my Lord, with all my blood and all my soul and despite all the hatred and fear. Affection born in such settings is often misleading. Don’t you see? That’s the only way to give us a chance. This is the best decision. For both of us.”

The best decision, maybe – but Sebastian sounds like a martyr walking toward his own death. The elation of having his old life close enough to grasp dissipated like the morning mist; now that it’s gone, now that the mask of the Ventrue cracked, it’s way too easy to glimpse at the terrible uncertainty of his fate.

“You want to stay?” Nines asks, letting his disbelief show because that’s not what he expected – he was certain, judging by how quickly Sebastian had pounced on the offer to go back to the Camarilla, that he was happy to finally be rid of him.

But he doesn’t sound like it, and Nines shouldn’t be glad to hear that.

“Of course,” Sebastian admits bitterly. “You and Anna are the only people I remember who have not treated me like they wanted me dead. You are the safe option. My _sole_ safe option.”

Nines can see so perfectly how he could go from here.

Push the right buttons; lean on Sebastian’s fears, make them bigger, and then sure as the sun goes up every morning, he would stay.

That’s what Nines would do, if he were a creepy asshole who doesn’t care about the man in the mirror.

But he does, and that’s why he brushes away the loose hairs sticking to Sebastian’s shoulders – an intimate gesture probably reserved for lovers, and they aren’t supposed to be that, but Nines can at least grant himself _that_. “Sforza looked like he cared. Could be pretending, but you said you trust him, yes?”

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he changed since I last saw him.”

“Or maybe he’s still legit and he’ll be better suited to help you than I am.” Nines doesn’t sound like he believes that, but hey, he’s _trying_.

“You don’t mean it,” Sebastian says with the smallest voice, the one that always sets Nines into protective mode – and he doesn’t know if the Ventrue has been doing that on purpose from the start to soften him, or if he’s legit.

Right now, he wants to believe it is, and Sebastian hasn’t swapped his hands away from his shoulders – so maybe Nines could push his luck and go for hug. “That’s just because I want you to stay. Subjectivity being a bitch here, unreliable POV, you get my meaning.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be alright.” Nines tries to make it sound like a promise. They both know it cannot be – they are such a mess by themselves, and the world around them is even _worst_ ; but when he gathers the smaller man into his arms and feels him tense and then melt, Nines wants to believe at some point they will be so. That he’ll manage to crawl out of this dark hole he feels like he slipped into at some unrecorded point, that Sebastian will turn out to be a better version of himself, that they will both survive long enough to get there.

They’ll be alright, eventually.

Both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Sebastian leaves and no I'm not writing that scene because I'm SAD. 
> 
> Poor babies hugged, I gave them that T_T
> 
> So, that's the end of Book 1, there'll be one of our fav CR interludes and then we're skipping some time (like 2 weeks OMG such a jump) for Book 2! With some action! Fights! War! The boys fighting together! Stay tuned! 
> 
> Enormous thanks to all the people who left reviews so far <3


	28. Interlude 4: His commands are your victory

**Bordeaux**  
1884

The wind and the _Albatros_ sing together – it is almost a stormy night on sleeping Bordeaux, and it makes the _port de la Lune_ noisy: steel cords whine, flags slap and the river Garonne carries the faraway growls of an angry sea.

Such a night is perfect for you. Neither you nor Sébastien fear the cold or the icy drizzle of December; the bad weather merely keeps mortals away from the quays, and the few who remain are easy game for your obfuscate. You stand in the open knowing the whole world must ignore you; let you be, alone and together, the nameless Eros and his beloved Psyché.

“So, this is the ship,” you say. Sixty meters, three masts, a hull of iron: the _Albatros_ isn’t one of the biggest monsters mortals build these days, and yet it is a giant compared to brave the _Niña_ you sailed under the sun.

In some ways, Sébastien reminds you of yourself, five centuries ago; of the young Castilian lord who enlisted to hunt gold an ocean away, riding on wings of canvas to the wrong Indies. He is, of course, much older now than you and your Reflection were – but you believe that Sébastien, no matter the years, will never entirely outgrow the youthfulness of his Embrace.

“This is _my_ ship,” he corrects you with petulant pride. “Well, ten percent of the _Albatros_ are mine, but that is not a negligible share.”

You wound your arms around his smaller body, his back against your chest; he tenses, then remembers no one can see you and relaxes. “Where does she sail?” you ask, your breath warm against his ear.

“To Nouméa, in Nouvelle-Calédonie,” he answers. “She will bring back coffee and nickel.” He doesn’t say what the _Albatros_ will carry to this far side of the world: whores and prisoners, exiled from the good lands of France to islands their country wants to conquer.

But Sébastien will not say that; the _Albatros_ is a dream, a bird sailing over the sea, far away from the daily dealings of the powerful and the suffering of their servants.

What he says is: “I have seen pictures. Her journey will be beautiful.”

You think of the long, empty road from the _Islas Canarias_ to _Desiderada_ ; of long, empty days spent rolling dices, playing cards, waiting, waiting for land; doing nothing but talking with the one who would become a part of yourself.

But Sébastien has never been at sea. Has never travelled much: from Belgium to Lyon, from Lyon to Bordeaux, sometimes to other French cities to carry messages or slay Anarchs. Wherever he goes, he always finds people who speak his tongue, who answer to the same government, whose skin color is the same as his.

Until tonight, he never expressed a desire to leave; tonight, you can feel the longing in every fiber of his body. Set foot on this ship and let her carry him away, to look up and discover the stars of the southern oceans.

“You should go,” you tell him. You haven’t left your diocese in a while; Sébastien’s thirst awakens yours. You remember a time when you wanted to see the whole world, and were ready to leave your books to follow the sun and find the marvels of Cipango.

Maybe you should travel to Mexico again. Pay a visit to the young Sabbat and their crude ways, and remember dreams of scales like rainbows and feathers of light.

“I am needed here,” Sébastien says.

Mayhap he is, mayhap not; you wonder whose chains are tighter: that of the Ventrue servant, or of the Lasombra priest-king.

“De Morsac will let you go, to learn of your investments. He would not have gifted you this ship…”

“Ten percent!”

“… of this ship, were he seeking anything else than you, learning the trade of the seafaring Ventrues of this city.” De Morsac first owed his money to wine; but his fortune, he got from his ships, to trading routes tying his city to England and then Africa, carrying treasures of flesh and precious, exotic wares.

You wonder if Sébastien knows – that his master was once deep into the slave trade, and bailed out only because he felt like the time was up, and it would become a financial burden.

“Ventrues are sedentary. Were I of any other clan, I would, but the blood –“

“Blood can be obtained. You are smart enough to manage.” _And afraid enough to make excuses not to follow the desires of your heart._ You tighten your embrace around him, let your chin rest on his shoulder. “You underestimate yourself, Sébastien. Anything you wish, you can achieve; you need only trust yourself.” Words he wouldn’t believe, without the power of your blood; but you speak as much with your tongue as you do with your veins, and you know he will soak in your approval. If only for this night he will let himself dream. That he can leave, that he can explore, that he can be everything he wants.

Come morning, he will let De Vandreuil’s chains snap once more, tie his wings to his body; it is a dance you know well, and you wonder, nowadays, if this is a war you can win.

Sébastien slips from your embrace; turns to face you, eyes alight and lips beautifully curved. “We are not supposed to embark without leave from the captain.”

“Unfortunate.” You smirk. “But the captain needs not know.”

His gloved hands find your shoulder, slide and lock behind your neck. “Precisely,” he says with a tone full of mischief and a devious little smile. “I will just ensure my ten percent are in good shape.”

“Of course. _That_ is what a serious businessman would do.”

“I am glad you approve, Messire.” He steps forward; chest meeting chest, his face tipping up so his lips can meet yours. He has been initiating way more kisses than he used to; since he caught that you aren’t reacting to his mere desires anymore, and are waiting for him to _act_ to get what he wants.

You kiss him back, of course – there are few things you enjoy more than to slip your tongue between his lips and taste his moans.

“Let us go aboard as thieves, then,” he breathes, his words falling straight from his mouth to yours. “The captain is away for the night.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.” Sébastien’s hand sneaks into your open coat with unusual boldness. “And I want you to have me on his desk, Messire.”

He stills; shocked, mayhap, by his own audacity; scared, possibly, that you may be displeased.

You aren’t.

You kiss him with religious fervor – him, and the measure of your own success. His arms encircle your waist under the coat; he almost melts against you. Of need, of relief, of joy; drunk with this small victory: that he dared not in vain.

He discovers his ship with eyes and ears and fingers. A hand entwined with yours, the other one touching everything, Sébastien leads you to your forbidden den with eyes wide with delight. His ship, his lover, his night; he is no more the timid boy who wanted you, basked in your love, and yet dared never demand, too terrified of your refusal.

Tonight, for the first time, he leads you.

And you let him.

His commands are your victory.

The cabin of the captain is closed. No matter. The trade of killing people requires so secondary skills, such as opening reluctant doors; the lock cannot resist him for long, and soon you are exploring the holiest sanctum of the _Albatros_. You remain in the dark: your Lasombra eyes can pierce any darkness, and Sébastien’s irises are shining red as his fingers trail upon polished bronze and waxed wood. You remain by the door. Waiting. For him to call you back; to invite you into this initiation.

You extend your mind toward his. Admiration, your feel; possessiveness, pride, gratitude. He has served De Morsac for decades, wanting nothing but for his mentor to remain steady and… kind would be the wrong word. No one would take De Morsac for a soft man; _not unkind_ would be more precise. Yes. De Morsac was never an unkind owner to Sébastien– and that set him above all things.

But now…

Now, the Marquis has _rewarded_ him. Offered him a gift of insane proportions. A token of trust, the start of a career in trade, outside of the battlefield. A chance to be _something_ other than a war dog.

His ship.

A dream with wings of canvas, flying toward unknown skies.

Sébastien stops at the desk. He sits in the engraved chair and closes his eyes. His imagination extends its own wings like a baby bird that was always afraid to leave the nest. _Her journey will be beautiful_. Africa, the _Cap the Bonne Espérance_ , mysterious islands and rainforests filled with butterflies as colorful as jewels; he hears the shriek of seagulls, and for once they do not sound like they mock him.

You approach slowly. Your steps echo on the wooden floor; you reach the desk and wait. He is the captain, the master of this ship; and you, nothing but a shadow awaiting his orders.

He opens his eyes at last, a red stare searching your face for clues; a face he saw many times, now, but that his mind cannot remember. _You are beautiful_ , he had said, seeing you for the first time – and that is what he always remembers: that he likes his thumbs to trace your cheekbones, that he shily entwines his fingers into your hair when he feels daring, and that your smoldering eyes make him blush.

You nod. The smallest of gesture. An assent. _Go on_.

He clutches the arms of the chair. This is a moment of truth, of risk, of foolishness or bravery, he does not know.

He is standing at the edge of a cliff, and despite common sense, his guts tell him: _jump_.

“ _Come_.”

You obey with the liquid steps of a big cat; circling the desk, until you are looking down. The chair is riveted to the floor; hands still clutching, Sébastien makes it turn on its axis to face you. You can see the moment he will back down. All it would take would be for you to raise a mocking eyebrow, and it would all be over.

You wait.

In his mind he stands still, looking at the stormy sea assaulting the cliff. There is still time; he has not jumped yet, he can still breathes out and give you the reins he holds with trembling hands.

The moment of truth.

You wait.

He closes his eyes.

“ ** _Kneel_**.”

He opens his eyes.

And find you on your knees.

You do not smile, though you want to. You do not encourage him, do not cheer, do not advise. He is the commander, the captain of this ship, the owner of this small world named the _Albatros_ – and of everything, every single soul that sets foot on her deck.

You wait.

He breathes in; his fingers retract, hands balling into fists. He has jumped into the great emptiness of authority – and now, must balance himself on an invisible thread, spanning from the cliff to the sky, and _walk_.

“Touch me.”

You put your hands on his knees, on his tights, getting closer to the buttons of his pants – slowly, agonizingly slowly, and then stop.

Eyes digging into his, you wait for his permission.

He breathes out.

And then in, and then orders: “With your mouth.”

You have done this before, many time – but never at his demand. Always asking him, always seeking the hints that he wants your tongue upon him, always cajoling, and he almost never dare to touch you; tonight his finger grab your hair, though he lets you pleasure him as you always do (as you know he likes, after decades of worshiping him).

How you like to seem him like this. Head thrown back, lips half opened and reddened by blood made hot by desire, moaning softly in timid, almost high pitched tones that make him sound so damn _needy_.

“S-stop,” he pants. “I want – I want to take you.” Breathe in. “I want…” Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out. “… I want you. On the desk. Sit.”

You obey.

You have never penetrated him (always felt like he would have felt raped), but you have, on a few occasions, taken him inside of you; whenever he feels confident, whenever he wants more and ready to get what he perceives as _the whole thing_ (but it is never truly whole, because he pretends all he does is receive, and wait and let you have you ways, and that he accepts like the good Ventrue he is).

Not tonight.

He stands; for once he is slightly taller, with you sitting on the desk and him between your legs. For once he is the once putting his hands around your waist, and then down to untie your pants, and then to push you down and get rid of your pant with slightly unsure gesture (that end up with one leg resisting a bit, and Sébastien looking like he is going to slip out of his role).

You grab his tie; lightly, just enough for him to look into your eyes.

“I am _yours_ ,” you affirm with eyes and tongue and lips and blood.

In that moment, it is a tenet – a declaration of faith that blows his hesitations away, the _insignificant_ failure of not undress you in a completely flawless way.

“I want to see you,” he says (demands, orders, he is not sure), lifting your knees so you can lock you’re your feet behind his back. “I want to know everything you feel, everything I’m doing to you, everything you think – it’s my turn to be in your head.”

“Yes,” you agree, as he fills you slowly, one hand grabbing your tight, the other sliding under your shirt (and one day, you will have to teach him that most people require oil, but you are old enough, and with enough mastery of your body and blood to ensure he goes in so _smoothly_ ), “yes, _master_.”

“Look at me.”

“ _Harder_ ,” you pant, voice getting lower, rougher – you were never a shy lover, and when you moan _good, I like your hands on me, yes, more nails, good, master, harder, harder, **I love this**_ , when his red eyes glower with desire and pleasure, you trust in your obfuscate to ensure you two don’t wake up the whole ship.

It would be funny.

But no.

You’d rather let yourself fall into incoherent sentences, need taking grammar and syntax to bed and fucking them senseless – _yes, Sébastien, you are so perfect, beautiful, I want your mouth, I want you whole, just so, master, faster, please, please, please, I adore you, more, by god, own me, I am yours._ Each word, each confirmation that you _like_ what he’s doing to you, that he’s doing well, that you want him, desire him, each word make him _perfect_.

“Deeper,” you beg, and his nails scratch you lightly, “just like that”, you moan as he hits the right spot _just right_ , “ _Sébastien_ ,” you pants, and his kisses against you jaw have the perfect amount of fangs to promise a Kiss you cannot hope for.

No matter.

It is, honestly, so endearing to have him here. To have his fingers dig into your wrists as he slams them against the desk. To have his lips all over yours. To hear him spill incoherent psalms of adoration, all dedicated to your beauty and the perfect tightness of your body.

No matter that he isn’t everything you desire.

 _No one_ is.

He kisses you, tongues meeting tongues and fangs grazing teeth; you feel the taste of vitae in your mouth, his arms around your waist, drawing you so close your heart feels his beating through skin and bones; you feel his shout of extasy fill his chest before it reaches his lips.

And then: the quietness, as his mind loses itself in mindless pleasure for a silent moment of eternity.

And then: he opens his eyes, and finds you looking at him like God just crowned him with laurels of diamonds.

You smile – he mirrors you, and your laughs mingle into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Albatros is an easter egg reference to another Sebastian fic... do you know which one? ^_^
> 
> (That's, of course, Diviner Bureaucrat by Iravaid!)


	29. Book 2, prologue: He must only win a war

Breathe in. Breathe out. Roll the shoulders, shift the weight from one foot to the other; everything feels right, somehow. Even the way the man looks in the mirror. Blond hair combed back, light eyes, a black vest hiding the gorget and chest plate underneath, belts heavy with utilities and a machete in a black leather sheath.

If Sebastian sets his jaw, he can even look the part.

But then he relaxes, and he just looks – lost. He knows the man in the mirror. Knows this is his face, his gears; his muscles can find the handle of the machete in the blink of an eye. Same for the gun on the other side of his hips. Maybe, _maybe_ he will be fine in a fight. If his body remembers how it feels to wear his armor – it should remember how to shoot, run, hide, crawl and stab.

Sebastian hopes it’ll be enough.

He leans forward, hands grabbing the cold enamel of the sink, to get closer to the man in the mirror. He frows, relaxes his face, sets his mouth into a hard line and then sighs. Eyes closed, head down. Did he always look so damn _young_?

Eyes open.

He looks lost.

Again.

_My name is Sebastian Lacroix. I was born on the 21st of March in Calais, in the year 1784. My mother’s name was Therese. I served in Napoleon’s army. I was Embraced in…_

He looks lost.

Again.

 _Shit_.

_My name is Sebastian Lacroix. I was born on the 21 st of March in Calais, in the year 1784. My mother’s name – _

He looks lost.

Again.

“Sebastian?”

He starts. It’s nothing – just a knock on the door and Sforza’s voice outside the bathroom. Sebastian’s body remembers the voice, somehow; it’s like a long-remembered smell, tricking the tongue into believing the air tastes like cakes.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Sebastian lies. He is _not_ losing his mind. It’s just stress, messing with him, because he has to pretend he is someone he does not remember; to look enough like his old self for Sforza to buy he’s _functional_.

Maybe he should try the routine one last time –

No. Sforza is waiting, and Sebastian will just manage to confuse himself further.

He empties his face of all feelings, turning the skin into the smooth porcelain of his stage mask. Is it the right one? Walking out of the bathroom, Sébastien – **_no_** , _Sebastian_ is hit by a moment of hesitation. Is that the mask of the Archon, or that of Vandreuil’s servant? He felt the muscles of his face twitch beneath the mask. Did Sforza catch his weakness?

The Lasombra stares. It’s alright, he is meant to examine every inch of him to check if he did everything as he should; a test of his memories, to see if Sebastian Lacroix can, at least, dress himself as the warrior he was. It’s alright, but it’s not – it’s unnerving, and the young – **_no_** , he’s not _young_. The Ventrue wants to fidget and switch weight from one foot to another; he doesn’t. His Lord always found that too disgraceful to bear. A real soldier stands at attention with the immobility of a statue.

So: Sebastian does not fidget. Does not even breathe, no matter how uncomfortable that is.

“… looks good,” Sforza says with a slight smile.

“It does?” Sébastien (fuckfuckfuck no stop it) lets out with a hopeful, _childish_ enthusiasm that absolutely cannot sound like Prince Lacroix, Archon Lacroix, or _any_ Lacroix.

A true Ventrue knows his business.

A true Ventrue is self-assured.

 _A true Ventrue remember when he was Embraced_ , he reminds himself without an ounce of kindness. And now he feels his face moving under the mask, his breathe coming out and then in and then out when it shouldn’t.

Of course Sforza catches that he’s troubled. More than a century old, and the Childe of one of the most dangerous shadow lords of Europe, Cesare always had a keen eye for expressions; what was Sebastian’s expecting? That he could fool him?

“Do you want to try the rifle?” Sforza asks. Calm. Steady. “Or is that enough for tonight?”

“ _Stop that_ ,” Sebastian snaps. He’s not made of glass, damnit, damnit damnit he can take it without being coddled! “You just said I was good. San Diego is in four nights, we cannot afford to waste time.” And he cannot afford not to go to San Diego. He needs the field achievements to be seen as Camarilla again – to be seen as a _soldier_ again, and not some whimpering victim or cackling fool or whoever they all think he is.

He is _not_ that.

He is Séba – _Sebastian_ Lacroix, Prince, Archon, Elder of the Camarilla. He just has to remember, or pretend he does before they decide he is too useless to be worth the troubles.

And he just snapped at his sole ally.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but doesn’t. Should he apologize? Does Sforza expect him to? Or will that look out of character?

“Sebastian.” The Lasombra sounds so steady. Sebastian is not jealous. He _isn’t_. “You do not have to go to San Diego, you know that? If you are not ready for the battlefield –“

“I am.” He must be, or his Lord would have killed him a long time ago. “I have served the Camarilla for two centuries. This little… set back, it won’t keep me away from duty.” And he needs the victory. He needs to be seen as one of _them_ again – sure, he maybe messed up in L.A, but all he needs is to perform well and they will all remember why they gave him a princedom in the first place.

Or he will mess up, and they will all see through the act, and understand he’s a broken, lost thing – “You said I could have my rifle back.” It sounds like _you said I could have my toy back_.

Ridiculous.

Why is he even pretending? With Nines, he would have given up. Handed the reins back to the Brujah and allowed himself to look like a fool.

But Nines didn’t know him – and the Lacroix he knew, he despised. There had been no point in trying.

Not so with Sforza.

“I did,” the Archon agrees. It’s impossible to know what he thinks. His dark eyes give nothing away, and his mask is much better than Sebastian’s… but he takes the bags, sets them on the table and right as promised, when Sebastian peers inside, he can see the parts of the TAC-50 carefully packed in there. “Put it back together, and we move to the shooting range.”

Sforza steps away. Now there’s only the table, wide and empty, and the bag, filled with pieces of what is supposed to be Sebastian’s weapon of choice. He refrains from fidgeting ( _stand still, damnit be a true soldier, are you a retarded child to behave like this?_ )

(the voice sounds like his Lord’s)

(but he is not sure, sometimes it sounds like Sebastian’s)

He refrains from fidgeting and slowly takes the parts out. What if he cannot do this? (The TAC-50, a very recent gun from the MacMillan factories) What if he forgot how to fight? ( .50 BMG cartridges, specific size is 12.7 x 99 mm) What if he cannot put it together? (each magazine holds 5 bullets) What if (can be used with a night sight but this is not useful).

He sets all the parts on the table, more or less where he feels like they should be – his mind has no idea what he it is doing, but his hands remember (and his eyes remember, they remember why Sebastian does not need a night sight). He lets them go left, right, grab and work, and finally Sebastian lets himself _not_ think. Just. Go with the flow. Let the hands work. Pretend for a moment nothing is wrong and he knows what he is doing.

He knows what he is doing.

He can handle his rifle.

He can wear his armor.

He can fight.

He turns toward Sforza. The gun is 57 inches long, so long it almost reaches Sebastian’s shin when he sets it on the ground; he probably looks like a child who stole daddy’s weapon, but he doesn’t feel like one. It _fits_. His MacMillan fits like an old friend and Sebastian knows, just from that sensation, that he’ll hit his targets a mile away.

Sebastian smiles. “I’m ready,” he lies – to Sforza, to himself, or maybe it’s not a lie and he has been a warrior for so long he will _always_ be ready.

And if he is, well.

He just has to win a war, and he’ll be _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who are you kidding Sebastian of course you won't be fine, poor boy.
> 
> Reviews much appreciated as always, this sad author is sad tonight T_T And Sebastian needs all the support he can get!


	30. Book 2, ch1: Nothing bothers me

From the top of the hill, Sebastian sees the distant lights of San Diego – and hears, in the background, the noisy bickering of the Anarchs.

Or, to be more precise: the shrieks of _one_ annoyed, petty, _loud_ Anarch; as if Damsel were the only one displeased by Sforza’s plan, and the whole world had to listen to her rants.

It makes Sebastian’s back crawl with exasperation.

Quiet steps approach from behind. Sebastian doesn’t need to guess who that is: in their small group, Nines is the only one who ever makes attempt to talk to him. Skelter is mostly quiet, barely answering anyone, and Damsel – that girl needs to shup up once in a while.

Thanks god Sebastian is sharing Skelter’s car and not hers. How can Nines even bear so many hours locked with her? At least his car is just filled with music and comfortable silence.

“Hey. Break is over, we’re going for the last drive. You coming?”

Rhetorical questions. As if Sebastian could remain there, by the lonely gas station where they stopped to refill. “Yes.”

A small silence.

“… want to tell me what bothers you?”

“Nothing.”

Nines chuckles; it’s a dry laugh that means: _oh yes, sure, I absolutely do not believe you_. “Why the fuck are you sulking, Sebastian? You wanted war, you got war – even if I think you shouldn’t be there.”

 _No one does. Obviously_. And that is so aggravating! Sebastian hit all his targets as if he were born for this, and what does he get? For two hundred years of fighting duties? To play back-up with Nines’ Anarchs, who are there to prove the alliance is a thing and watch Sforza’s war coterie prove the Camarilla means business. _That’s it_. Nothing else.

This is supposed to be his comeback, and all it is a farce, sitting on the substitutes’ bench while the Anarchs complete their touristic tour of the battlefront.

“I am fine,” Sebastian insists. His memories have been stable for the past four nights and he felt _so_ good at the shooting range – he was so fully _himself_ when his mind went blank, when all he had to focus on was his sight and his finger on the trigger. He is fine (and he will remain fine, he has to remain fine)

(and he has to prove he can still function)

(he has to prove it’ll be useful to have him back)

… he is fine, and he does not need to be coddled.

“I do not understand,” Sebastian asks, hating how his voice is brimming with annoyance, “why you are satisfied with this arrangement. You don’t even need to be there – what is the point? To bear witness to Sforza’s achievements on the battlefield?”

“I am in no hurry to put my friends in danger. The last time the Sabbat attacked L.A, half my turf died during the first night – so if Sforza wants to risk his skin rather than ours, he’s welcome to it.” The steps resume, and then stop; Nines elbows are almost touching Sebastian’s; almost. “Listen. I don’t agree with everything Sforza is doing. I don’t agree with him dragging you here –“ No one is dragging Sebastian here (he needs to be there, needs to reconnect with himself), damnit can they not stop treating him like a child? “ – but his plan is sound. We wreck some shovelheads, let them see we have our own Lasombra traitor, and then we lure Polonia’s troops where we want them to be.”

Sebastian breathes in. The air is warm and carries the pleasant scents of the countryside; dry, but not too much, in a may that reminds him of some parts of France he visited as a messenger in his youth. Vine orchards sprawl down the sides of the hills, insects buzz; it’s a lively place, even at night, in a way urban areas will never be. Sebastian can even see some stars, here – and feel Nines’ presence, so close the Ventrue struggles to keep his hands in his pockets.

It is too soon. And too messy. He is not ready for whatever happened between them; he isn’t sure he will ever be.

“This is unfair,” Sebastian starts, quietly.

He is not sure what is unfair: that he wants Nines’ to be stupid and embrace him (he will push him away, of course, he has to, he cannot let this happen), knowing Nines won’t with his friends nearby? Or that Sforza is treating him like a subclass soldier?

“I _deserve_ to be in the main team!” That. That must be why he is so aggravated. It has nothing to do with Nines because way too close. “I hit all the targets on the field, including the one set almost two miles away from my position!” He hates how his voice goes up, how his hands escape from his pocket, how he stresses every word with an annoyed gesture. (Why must you always whine? Can you not try to sound like a grown man?) “And that wasn’t even with my old M82! I am the most experienced sharpshooter Sforza can get! This is – this is –“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Sebastian, grow up!”

They turn at the same time; Sebastian opens his mouth and then closes with a vexed pout. Nines has _that_ _frown_ that means Sebastian slipped into the Lacroix behavior he hates.

That’s fine.

Sebastian hates that Lacroix too (the one who acts like a silly boy).

(Sometimes, he can’t help it, no matter that De Vandreuil tried to root these silly behaviors away like one would pull out weeds.)

“This is not a game,” Nines growls. “As impressive as your shooting skills are, they don’t make up for your unstable behavior. What do you think will happen if you freak out in battle?”

He won’t.

He won’t.

He absolutely won’t. He cannot. _He will not_. “My hands and eyes remember,” Sebastian retorts. Coldly. Or tries to, because Nines’ frown is making him uneasy.

He will not freak out.

He is a soldier, and they will all see that part of him isn’t lost (that he can still be of use).

(and if he can be of use, they shouldn’t discard him)

He needs Nines to see – to see that he is not the defenseless prisoner who pretended to be weak and showed his throat for protection. This time is done; over; gone! Sebastian must grow out of it. He cannot rely on the Anarch to help him retrieve his rank and wealth.

It was all an act anyway.

Wasn’t it?

But Nines doesn’t see – and what he says is entwined with a bitter sigh. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

Sebastian looks away.

It is true, he shouldn’t. Not after two centuries of what must have been good services. He was Prince, wasn’t he? He must have served well. He remembers too many details of too many battles. Lyon, 1817; Paris, in July 1830; the Sabbat attempt to seize Marseille in the late 1830s, the troubles in Paris in 1848, the frontline in Bordeaux (a scam, it had been a scam, it had been rigged from the start), the failed Camarilla attempt against Milan and slaughter of the Anarchs of the Commune de Paris – for the nineteenth century alone, he can name a dozen fights he survived.

What went wrong? Was it not enough? Did he mess up so hard all his achievements meant nothing, in the end? Or is he just missing a crucial piece of the puzzle that is his jarring lack of value?

(Stop fidgeting)

(A true Ventrue stands still as a statue, like a good soldier)

(Stop fidgeting, you idiotic child)

“That is how the world is,” Lacroix snaps. “We have to do with the hand that is handed to us. It matters not that we would like for things to be… different.”

“Why not?”

 _Because Anarchs always lose_. So Sebastian remains silent.

For a while.

They will have to go, eventually. That is why Nines came, wasn’t it? They have to leave the orchards. Drive to battle.

The hand that touches Sebastian’s shoulder is almost hesitant. He supposes he should read that as a friendly gesture – the leader of their team showing support, maybe; but all he feels is that his former not-lover could go anywhere from here. Slide down his back to his waist. Slide to the nape of his neck and pull him for a kiss. Sebastian breathes in. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t need air and yet the instinct is here.

Maybe he would even let him. Let this hand go wherever Nines will want it to go and not stop him.

But there are steps behind them. Quick, with a spring in them. That damned redhead, of course it would be her.

And still, Sebastian would let Nines do whatever he wants (she would be so offended, it would almost be funny).

The hand falls down, and Nines turns.

Because of course, it would be too much to ask: for him to commit when his friends are looking.

Maybe it is.

It’s alright, Sebastian thinks as the two Brujahs return to their car.

It’s not like a _really_ wanted that anyway, and he has a war to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian baby maybe Nines would do better with some *clearer* signs that you are into him. Just sayin.


End file.
